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UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIE60 


presented  to  the 
UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 

by 


MRS.  WILLIAM  F.   BADE 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OP 


BAYARD    TAYLOR 


HOUSEHOLD  EDITION. 


BOSTON: 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY. 

Btoeraifce  Pr« 
1884. 


Copyright,  1854,  1855,  1862, 1864, 1866, 1873, 1875,  and  1879, 

Br  BAYARD  TAYLOR,  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO.,  AND 
UOUGI1TON,  OSGOOD  &  CO. 

Copyright,  1882  and  1883, 
Br  MARIE  TAYLOR. 

All  rights  reserved. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 

ELECT ROTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY 

H.  0.  IIOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


PREFACE. 


WIIH  the  exception  of  the  drama  of  the  "  Prophet,"  the  dramatic  poems  of  the 
"Masque  of  the  Gods  "  and  "Prince  Deukalion,"  and  the  poetical  translation  of 
Goethe's  "  Faust,"  the  present  volume  contains  the  entire  poetical  works  of  Bay 
ard  Taylor.  To  the  poems  which  were  published  in  a  collected  or  a  separate 
form,  during  the  author's  life,  the  editors  have  added  a  not  inconsiderable  number 
of  heretofore  unpublished  poems  which  were  found  among  his  manuscripts,  in  a 
more  or  less  finished  state,  and  which,  therefore,  have  not  undergone  that  severe 
revision  to  which  the  author  would  have  subjected  them  had  he  lived  to  offer 
them  to  the  public  in  a  permanent  shape.  The  editors  say  this  iu  justice  to  Tay 
lor's  reputation  as  a  poet ;  in  explanation,  not  in  apology,  for  having  presented 
the  reader  with  works  which  their  author  may  have  regarded  as  unfinished  when 
they  last  came  beneath  his  eyes.  It  is  our  purpose  to  make  the  following  collec 
tion  of  Taylor's  poems  as  complete  as  is  possible,  and  to  omit  from  it  nothing  in  a 
poetical  form,  with  the  exceptions  above  mentioned,  to  which  he  once  gave  his 
serious  attention. 

Poetry  was  the  literary  element  in  which  Taylor  lived  and  moved  and  had  his 
being;  to  which  all  other  efforts  and  all  other  ambitions  were  subjected,  as  vas 
sals  to  a  sovereign  ;  and  to  success  in  which  he  gave  more  thoughtful  labor,  and 
held  its  fruits  in  higher  esteem  than  all  the  world  and  all  the  other  glories  there 
of.  He  travelled  pen  in  hand ;  he  delivered  course  after  course  of  lectures  in 
the  brief  nightly  pauses  of  his  long  winter  journeys ;  he  wrote  novels,  he  wrote 
editorials,  criticisms,  letters,  and  miscellaneous  articles  for  the  magazines  and  the 
newspapers ;  he  toiled  as  few  men  have  toiled  at  any  profession  or  for  any  end, 
and  he  wore  himself  out  and  perished  prematurely  of  hard  and,  sometimes,  bitter 
work. 

It  is  consoling  to  know  that  throughout  his  laborious  life,  which  brought  his 
sensitive,  poetical  nature  into  daily  contact  with  stupidity,  ignorance,  grossness, 
ind  with  the  consequential  vulgarity  of  conceited  dolts,  he  had  something  to  cheer 
and  to  comfort  him  in  those  solitary  hours  through  which  less  imaginative  men 
brood  over  the  wrongs  and  the  disgusting  histories  of  their  world,  and  harden 
themselves  against  the  future  in  a  crust  of  cynical  misanthropy.  "We,  who  knew 
him  intimately,  can  safely  say  that  he  passed  no  such  desponding  hours.  His 
Bonl  preserved  the  hopeful  freshness  of  its  divine  source,  it  flowed  untainted  and 
•suiting  through  its  earthly  course,  and  finished  the  circle  of  its  career  of  life  by 


IV  PREFACE. 

pouring  back  into  the  fountain  head  a  tide  as  clear  and  as  blameless  as  the  drops 
which  consecrate  the  infant.  In  its  passage  through  the  foul  things  of  the  world 
his  nature  seemed  rather  to  filter  and  to  purify  itself,  than  to  take  any  stain  from 
the  baser  medium.  This  childlike  purity  and  joyousness  of  heart  Taylor  owed  to 
the  worship  of  an  art  for  which  his  reverence  was  boundless.  To  him  poetry  was 
a  second  religion,  or  an  intellectual  continuation  of  that  natural,  moral  sentiment 
which  lifts  man  above  himself  and  his  fortunes  in  his  aspiration  after  immortality 
and  supernal  life.  He  held  that  no  achievement  of  man  was  comparable  to  the 
creation  of  a  living  poem.  He  saw,  with  other  thinking  men,  that  the  work  of 
the  poet  is  more  like  the  work  of  God  than  any  other  earthly  thing,  since  it  is  the 
only  product  of  art  that  is  assured  of  perpetuity,  by  the  safety  with  which  it  can  be 
transmitted  from  generation  to  generation.  He  believed  himself  to  be  a  poet,  — 
of  what  stature  and  quality  it  is  now  for  the  world  to  decide,  —  and  in  that  faith 
he  wrought  at  his  vocation  with  an  assiduity,  and  a  careful  husbanding  of  his  time 
and  opportunities  for  mental  and  for  written  poetical  composition,  that  was  won 
derful  as  an  exhibition  of  human  industry,  and  in  its  many  and  varied  results, 
when  we  take  into  consideration  his  wandering  life  and  his  diversified  and  exact 
ing  employments.  To  him  the  cultivation  of  the  poetic  art  was  the  duty  and  the 
serious  business  of  his  life, — the  talent  entrusted  him,  to  be  put  at  use,  by  the 
Master,  — while  the  winning  of  bread  and  the  struggle  for  place  were  subordinate 
cares,  as  insignificant  by  comparison  as  is  the  duration  of  one  man's  life  to  that  of 
the  race  of  man. 

Whatever  Taylor  produced  under  the  influence  of  opinions  so  exalted,  and  with 
a  respect  so  profound  for  the  nature  of  his  art,  whether  exercised  by  himself  or  by 
another,  was  serious  and  conscientious  work.  It  was  the  product  of  his  highest 
being.  It  was  the  best  that  all  his  faculties,  focalized  upon  one  bright  point, 
could  achieve  for  his  own  joyous  satisfaction,  and  for  the  good  of  his  fellow  man 
It  was  more  to  him  than  all  his  other  earthly  accomplishments  combined  and 
thrice  multiplied.  Those  who  have  followed  his  career  of  success  and  of  well-won 
honors,  who  have  journeyed  with  him  through  the  long  lines  of  type  that  retraced 
his  travels,  who  have  crowded  together  to  draw  instruction  from  his  lectures,  who 
have  been  moved  to  admiration  by  the  scenes  of  his  novels,  who  have  pondered  the 
pregnant  passages  of  his  criticism,  who  have  seen  with  his  eyes,  who  have  been 
taught  with  his  knowledge,  who  have  felt  with  his  heart,  and  who  have  thought 
with  his  mind,  must  yet  look  into  these  poems, — not  casually  but  deeply,  —  if 
they  would  know  the  soul  of  Taylor,  the  very  essence  of  the  man,  the  spirit  as  it 
stood  before  God.  To  know  him  otherwise  —  by  this  act  or  that,  by  one  success 
or  another  —  is  but  to  know  him  in  the  flesh,  and  to  mistake  the  garment  for  the 
mau.  G.  H.  B. 


CONTENTS. 


fl 
THE  POET'S  JOURNAL. 
PREFACE:  THE  RETURN   OP  THE  GOD 
DESS    ....... 

LOB 

8 

6 

7 
10 
11 
11 
12 
12 
13 
13 
15 
16 
17 
17 
18 
18 
19 
19 
19 
20 
20 
22 
24 
24 
25 
25 
26 
26 
27 
27 
28 
29 
29 
30 

35 
37 
38 

PJ 
The  Temptation  of  Hassan  B«a  Klialed 
Shekh  Ahnaf's  Letter  from  Baghdad 
El  Khalil  *.        

191 

38 
44 
48 
48 
49 
63 
54 
54 
55'" 
55 
56 
57 
57 
68 
69 
60 
61 
61 
62 
62 
63 
63 
64 
64 
65 
65 

68 
69 
70    * 
72 
72 
76 
78 
88 
87 
88 
88 
90 
91 
»1 
91 

INSCRIPTION  t    TO    THE    MISTRESS    OP 
CEDARCROFT             .... 

Amram's  Wooing       .... 
The  Garden  of  Irem    .... 
The  Wisdom  of  Ali  . 
An  Oriental  Idyl  ..... 

The  Torso    ..... 

On  the  Headland    .... 

,    Bedouin  Song    
Desert  Hymn  to  the  Sun    .        .        . 
Nilotic  Drinking  Song      ... 

The  Voice  of  the  Tempter    . 

Squandered  Lives   . 

SICOND  EVENING    .       . 
Atonement        .            ... 
December                 .... 
Sylvan  Spirits     .... 
The  Lost  May         .... 
Churchyard  Roses       .        .        . 
Autumnal  Dreams          .        .        . 

The  Birth  of  the  Prophet 
To  the  Nile    

Hassan  to  his  Mare   .        .        . 

Smyrna       .... 
To  a  Persian  Boy  ...                . 
The  Arab  to  the  Palm 

The  Chapel          .... 
If  Love  should  come  again  . 
THIRD  EVENING  
The  Return  of  Spring   . 

On  the  Sea          .... 

An  Answer         .... 
L'Envoi  

ROMANCES  AND  LYRICS. 
Dedication:  To  George  H.  Bcic*r 
Porphyrogenitus    .... 
(/Metempsychosis  of  the  Pine    .        . 
The  Vineyard-Saint     .        .        . 
Hylas  ...... 

The  Vision      ..... 

Love  returned      .... 
A  Woman        ..... 

The  Count  of  Gleichen 
Before  the  Bridal  .... 

Under  the  Moon    .... 
The  Mystic  Summer  . 
The  Father     

Mon-da-Min         .... 
The  Soldier  and  the  Pard    .        . 
Ariel  in  the  Cloven  Pine  . 
The  Song  of  the  Camp         .        .        . 
Icarus         ....                . 
The  Bath        ...... 

The  Mother          .        .        ,        . 

POEMS   OF  THE    ORIENT. 
Proem    Dedicatory  :  An   Epistle   from 

The  Fountain  of  Trevi     . 
Proposal         
The  Palm  and  the  Pine   .    •  .        . 

A  Psean  to  the  Dawn 
The  Poet  in  the  East   .... 

VI 


CONTENTS. 


l~    On  leaving  California  . 
Euphorion 
Wind  and  Sea 
My  Dead    . 


.    92 
93 

.    94 
94 

The  Lost  Crown 94 

Studies  for  Pictures          .  .       95 

Sunken  Treasures  .  .96 

The  Voyagers  .       .  .97 

Song 98 

The  Mystery      .  ...       98 

A  Picture  99 

In  the  Meadows         ....       99 
"  Down  in  the  Dell  I  wandered  "       .  100 

Song    .  100 

The  Phantom 100 

Soldier's  Song  /       .        .      101 

The  Shepherd's  Lament       .        .        .  101 
The  Garden  of  Roses        .        .        .101 

The  Three  Songs 102 

The  Song  of  Mignon        ...      102 

Hartz-Journey  in  Winter     .       .        .  103 

OALIFORNIAN  BALLADS  AND  POEMS. 

v    Manuela     .  .       .       .      107 

v   The  Fight  of  Paso  del  Mar  .        .       .108 

v   The  Pine  Forest  of  Monterey  .        .      109 

•  El  Canelo Ill 

'.    The  Summer  Camp    ....      Ill 

•  The  Bison  Track  .        .        .        .        .  114 
EARLIER  POEMS. 

The  Harp:  An  Ode   ....      119 

Serapion 120 

"  Moan,  ye  Wild  Winds  "  .      121 

Taurus    121 

Autumnal  Vespers    ....      122 

Ode  to  Shelley 124 

Sicilian  Wine 124 

Storm-Lines 126 

The  Two  Visions       ....      126 

Storm  Song 127 

Song 127 

The  Wares 127 

Song 128 

Sonnet 128 

The  Wayside  Dream         ...      128 

Steyermark 129 

To  a  Bavarian  Girl   ....      130 

In  Italy 130 

A  Bacchic  Ode 131 

A  Funeral  Thought      .        .  .181 

The  Norseman's  Ride       ...      132 

The  Continents 132 

L'Envoi 134 

IISCE  1861. 

Through  Baltimore       ....  137 
To  the  American  People    .        .       .      137 


Scott  and  the  Veteran  .      138 

March     ...  ...  139 

A  Thousand  Tears  .        .  140 

A  Day  in  March  .        .        .        .140 

The  Test    .  ...      141 

The  Neva       .        .  .  142 

A  Story  for  a  Child  ....      143 

HOME  PASTORALS. 

Ad  Amicos     ......  146 

Proem         ....       4       .      147 

May-Time 148 

August 151 

November  154 

L'Envoi  ....  167 

BALLADS. 

The  Quaker  Widow      .  .  161 

The  Holly-Tree 163 

John  Reed     .        .        -        .        .        .166 

Jane  Reed 167 

•  The  Old  Pennsylvania  Farmer  .  .  168 
Napoleon  at  Ootba  ....  171 
The  Accolade  ...  .  173 

Eric  and  Axel  .  .        .      175 

LYRICS. 

The  Burden  of  the  Day   .  179 

In  the  Lists   ...  ,.        .  179 

The  Sunshine  of  the  Gods  .      180 

Notus  Ignoto 181 

In  my  Vineyard        ....      182 

The  Two  Homes 183 

Iris .184 

Implora  Pace 186 

Penn  Calvin 185 

Summer  Night 186 

The  Sleeper 187 

My  Farm :  A  Fable       .       .        .       .188 

Harpocrates 189 

Run  Wild 190 

"  Casa  Guidi  Windows  "  .  .  .  191 
The  Guests  of  Night  .  .  .  .192 

Chant 193 

Soldiers  of  Peace  .  .  .  .193 
The  Song  of  1876  ....  195 
Improvisations  .....  196 

Marigold ..198 

Will  and  Law 198 

True  Love's  Time  of  Day        .        .      199 

Youth 199 

The  Imp  of  Spring-Time  ...  199 
Canopus  ......  200 

Cupido 201 

The  Voices  of  Rome     .       .       .       .202 

Pandora 203 

Sorrento 204 

The  Two  Greetings  ....     206 


CONTENTS. 


Vll 


To  my  Daughter        ....      206 

A  Lover's  Test 206 

A  Friend's  Greeting  i  206 

Peach-Blossom 207 

Assyrian  Night-Song    ....  208 

My  Prologue 209 

Gabriel 209 

The  Lost  Caryatid     .  .      210 

The  Village  Stork        .        .       .        .211 

Sonnet 212 

From  the  North 212 

A  Wedding  Sonnet    ....      212 
Christmas  Sonnets        ....  213 

A  Statesman 214 

A  President 214 

Sonnet       ....  .214 

To  Marie 214 

ODES. 

(Gettysburg  Ode .        .        .        .  219 


Shakespeare's  Statue    . 
Goethe         .... 
The  National  Ode 
The  Obsequies  in  Borne   . 


223 
226 
230 
235 


Epicedium 237 

THE  PICTURE  OF   ST.  JOHN. 

Introductory  Note      .        .        .  243 

Proem  :  To  the  Artists  ...  245 
Book  I.  The  Artist ....  249 
Book  H.  The  Woman  .  .  .262 
Book  in.  The  Child  .  .  .  275 
Book  IV.  The'  Picture  .  .  .287 

LABS:  A  PASTORAL    OF  NORWAY. 
Dedication :  To  John  Greenleaf  Whit- 
tier  302 

Book  1 303 

Book  II 816 

Book  HI.  828 


THE  POET'S  JOURNAL. 


PKEFACE. 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GODDESS. 

NOT  as  in  youth,  with  steps  outspeeding  morn, 

And  cheeks  all  bright,  from  rapture  of  the  way, 
But  in  strange  mood,  half  cheerful,  half  forlorn, 
She  comes  to  me  to-day. 

Does  she  forget  the  trysts  we  used  to  keep, 

When  dead  leaves  rustled  on  autumnal  ground, 
Or  the  lone  garret,  whence  she  banished  sleep 
With  threats  of  silver  sound  ? 

Does  she  forget  how  shone  the  happy  eyes 

When  they  beheld  her,  —  how  the  eager  tongue 
Plied  its  swift  oar  through  wave-like  harmonies, 
To  reach  her  where  she  sung  ? 

How  at  her  sacred  feet  I  cast  me  down  ? 

How  she  upraised  me  to  her  bosom  fair, 
And  from  her  garland  shred  the  first  light  crown 
That  ever  pressed  my  hair  ? 

Though  dust  is  on  the  leaves,  her  breath  will  bring 
Their  freshness  back  :  why  lingers  she  so  long  ? 
Tke  pulseless  air  is  waiting  for  her  wing, 
Dumb  with  unuttered  song. 

If  tender  doubt  delay  her  on  the  road, 

Oh  let  her  haste  to  find  the  doubt  belied ! 
If  shame  for  love  unworthily  bestowed, 

That  shame  shall  melt  in  pride. 

If  she  but  smile,  the  crystal  calm  shall  break 

In  music,  sweeter  than  it  ever  gave, 
As  when  a  breeze  breathes  o'er  some  sleeping  lake, 
And  laughs  in  every  wave. 

The  ripples  of  awakened  song  shall  die 

Kissing  her  feet,  and  woo  her  not  in  vain, 
Until-,  as  once,  upon  her  breast  I  lie  — 
Pardoned,  and  loved  again  ! 

B.  T. 


INSOKIPTKXN". 


TO  THE  MISTRESS   OF  CEDARCROFT. 


THE  evening  shadows  lengthen  on  the  lawn  : 
Westward,  our  immemorial  chestnuts  stand, 

A  mount  of  shade  ;  but  o'er  the  cedars  drawn, 
Between  the  hedge-row  trees,  in  many  a  band 

Of  brightening  gold,  the  sunshine  lingers  on, 

And  soon  will  touch  our  oaks  with  parting  hand : 

And  down  the  distant  valley  all  is  still, 

And  flushed  with  purple  smiles  the  beckoning  hill. 


Come,  leave  the  flowery  terrace,  leave  the  beds 
Where  Southern  children  wake  to  Northern  air  : 

Let  yon  mimosas  droop  their  tufted  heads, 
These  myrtle-trees  their  nuptial  beauty  wear, 

And  while  the  dying  day  reluctant  treads 
From  tree-top  unto  tree-top,  with  me  share 

The  scene's  idyllic  peace,  the  evening's  close, 

The  balm  of  twilight,  and  the  land's  repose. 


Come,  for  my  task  is  done  •  the  task  that  drew 
My  footsteps  from  the  chambers  of  the  Day,  — 

That  held  me  back,  Beloved,  even  from  you, 
That  are  my  daylight :  for  the  Poet's  way 

Turns  into  many  a  lonely  avenue 

Where  none  may  follow.     He  must  sing  his  lay 

First  to  himself,  then  to  the  One  most  dear ; 

Last,  to  the  world.     Come  to  my  side,  and  hear  ! 


The  poems  ripened  in  a  heart  at  rest, 

A  life  that  first  through  you  is  free  and  strong, 

Take  them  and  warm  them  in  your  partial  breast, 
Before  they  try  the  common  air  of  song  ! 

Fame  won  at  home  is  of  all  fame  the  best : 
Crown  me  your  poet,  and  the  critic's  wrong 

Shall  harmless  strike  where  you  in  love  have  smiled, 

Wife  of  my  heart,  and  mother  of  my  child  ! 


THE  POET'S  JOUENAL. 


FIEST  EVENING. 

THE  day  ha<_  come,  the  day  of  many  years. 

My  bud  of  hope,  thorned  round  with  guarding  fears, 

And  sealed  with  frosts  of  oft-renewed  delay, 

Burst  into  sudden  bloom  —  it  was  the  day  ! 
**  Ernest  will  come  !  "  the  early  sunbeams  cried ; 
"  Will  come !  "  was  breathed  through  all  the  woodlands  wide  ; 
"  Will  come,  will  come  !  "  said  cloud,  and  brook,  and  bird ; 

And  when  the  hollow  roll  of  wheels  was  heard 

Across  the  bridge,  it  thundered,  "  He  is  near  !  " 
,  And  then  my  heart  made  answer,  "  He  is  here  ! " 

Ernest  was  here,  and  now  the  day  had  gone 

Like  other  days,  yet  wild  and  swift  and  sweet,  — 

And  yet  prolonged,  as  if  with  whirling  feet 

One  troop  of  duplicated  Hours  sped  on 

And  one  trod  out  the  moments  lingeringly  : 

So  distant  seemed  the  lonely  dawn  from  me. 

But  all  was  well.     He  paced  the  new-mown  lawn, 

With  Edith  at  his  side,  and,  while  my  firs 

Stood  bronzed  with  sunset,  happy  glances  cast 

On  the  familiar  landmarks  of  the  Past. 

I  heard  a  gentle  laugh  :  the  laugh  was  hers. 
'*  Confess  it,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  recognize, 

No  less  than  you,  the  features  of  the  place, 

So  often  have  I  seen  it  with  the  eyes 

Your  memory  gave  me  :  yea,  your  very  face, 

With  every  movement  of  the  theme,  betrayed 

That  here  the  sunshine  lay,  and  there  the  shade." 
"  A  proof  ! "  cried  Ernest.     "  Let  me  be  your  guide," 

She  said,  "  and  speak  not :  Philip  shall  decide." 

To  them  I  went,  at  beckon  of  her  hand. 

A  moment  she  the  mellow  landscape  scanned 

In  seeming  doubt,  but  only  to  prolong 

A  witching  aspect  of  uncertainty, 

And  the  soft  smile  in  Ernest's  watching  eye  : 
"  Yonder,"  she  said,  "  (I  see  I  am  not  wrong, 

By  Philip's  face,)  you  built  your  hermit  seat 

Against  the  rock,  among  the  scented  fern, 

Where  summer  lizards  played  about  your  feet ; 

And  here,  beside  us,  is  the  tottering  urn 

You  cracked. iii  fixing  firmly  ou  its  base  ; 


THE   POET'S  JOURNAL. 

And  here  —  yes,  yes !  —  this  is  the  very  place  — 
I  know  the  wild  vine  and  the  sassafras  — 
Where  you  and  Philip,  lying  in  the  grass, 
Disowned  the  world,  renounced  the  race  of  men, 
And  you  all  love,  except  your  own  for  him, 
Until,  through  that,  all  love  came  back  again." 
Here  Edith  paused ;  but  Krnest's  eyes  were  dim. 
He  kissed  her,  gave  a  loving  hand  to  me, 
And  spoke  :  "  Ah,  Philip,  Philip,  those  were  days 
We  dare  remember  now,  when  only  blaze 
Far-off,  the  storm's  black  edges  brokenly. 
Who  thinks,  at  night,  that  morn  will  ever  be  ? 
Who  knows,  far  out  upon  the  central  sea, 
That  anywhere  is  land  ?     And  yet,  a  shore 
Has  set  behind  us,  imd  will  rise  before  : 
A  past  foretells  a  future."   "  Blessed  be 
That  Past  !  "  I  answered,  "  on  whose  bosom  lay 
Peace,  like  a  new-born  child  :  and  now,  I  see, 
The  child  is  man,  begetting  day  by  day 
Some  fresher  jov,  some  other  bliss,  to  make 
Your  life  the  fairer  for  his  mother's  sake." 

Deeper  beneath  the  oaks  the  shadows  grew : 

The  twilight  glimmer  from  their  tops  withdrew, 

And  purple  gloomed  the  distant  hills,  and  sweet 

The  sudden  breath  of  evening  rose,  with  balm 

Of  grassy  meadows  :  in  the  upper  calm 

The  pulses  of  the  stars  began  to  beat  : 

The  fire-flies  twinkled :  through  the  lindens  went 

A  rustle,  as  of  happy  leaves  composed 

To  airy  sleep,  of  drowsy  petals  closed, 

And  the  dark  land  lay  silent  and  content. 

We,  too,  were  silent.     Ernest  walked,  I  knew, 

With  me,  beneath  the  stars  of  other  eves  : 

He  heard,  with  me,  the  tongues  of  perished  leaves  : 

Departed  suns  their  trails  of  splendor  drew 

Across  departed  summers  :  whispers  came 

From  voices,  long  ago  resolved  again 

Into  the  primal  Silence,  and  we  twain, 

Ghosts  of  our  present  selves,  yet  still  the  same, 

As  in  a  spectral  mirror  wandered  there. 

Its  pain  outlived,  the  Past  was  only  fair. 

Ten  years  had  passed  since  I  had  touched  his  hand, 

And  felt  upon  my  lips  the  brother-kiss 

That  shames  not  manhood, —  years  of  quiet  bliss 

To  me,  fast-rooted  on  paternal  land, 

Mated,  yet  childless.     He  had  journeyed  far 

Beyond  the  borders  of  my  life,  and  whirled 

Unresting  round  the  vortex  of  the  world, 

The  reckless  child  of  some  eccentric  star, 

Careless  of  fate,  yet  with  a  central  strength 

I  knew  would  hold  his  life  in  equipoise, 

And  bent  his  wandering  energies,  at  length, 

To  the  smooth  orbit  of  serener  joys. 

Few  were  the  winds  that  wafted  to  my  nest 

A  leaf  from  him  :  I  learned  that  he  was  blest,  — 

The  late  fulfilment  of  my  prophecy,  — 

And  then  I  felt  that  he  must  come  to  me, 


FIRST   EVENING. 

Tho  old,  unswerving  sympathy  to  claim ; 
And  set  my  house  in  order  for  a  guest 
Long  ere  the  message  of  his  coming  came. 

In  gentle  terraces  my  garden  fell 
Down  to  the  rolling  lawn.     On  one  side  rose, 
Flanking  the  layers  of  bloom,  a  bolder  swell 
With  laurels  clad,  and  every  shrub  that  glows 
Upon  our  native  hills,  a  bosky  mound, 
Whence  the  commingling  valleys  might  be  seen 
Bluer  and  lovelier  through  the  gaps  of  green. 
The  rustic  arbor  which  the  summit  crowned 
Was  woven  of  shining  smilax,  trumpet-vine, 
Clematis,  arid  the  wild  white  eglantine, 
Whose  tropical  luxuriance  overhung 
The  interspaces  of  the  posts,  and  made 
For  each  sweet  picture  frames'  of  bloom  and  shade. 
It  was  my  favorite  haunt  when  I  was  young, 
To  read  my  poets,  watch  my  sunset  fade 
Behind  my  father's  hills,  and,  when  the  moon 
Shed  warmer  silver  through  the  nights  of  June, 
Dream,  as  't  were  new,  the  universal  dream. 
This  arbor,  too,  was  Ernest's  hermitage  : 
Here  he  had  read  to  me  his  tear-stained  page 
Of  sorrow,  here  renewed  the  pang  supreme 
Which  burned  his  youth  to  ashes :  here  would  try 
To  lay  his  burden  in  the  hands  of  Song, 
And  make  the  Poet  bear  the  Lover's  wrong, 
But  still  his  heart  impatiently  would  cry  : 
"  In  vain,  in  vain !     You  cannot  teach  to  flow 
In  measured  lines  so  measureless  a  woe. 
First  learn  to  slay  this  wild  beast  of  despair, 
Then  from  his  harmless  jaws  your  honey  tear !  " 

Hither  we  came.    Beloved  hands  had  graced 
The  table  with  a  flask  of  mellow  juice, 
Thereto  the  gentle  herb  that  poets  use 
When  Fancy  droops,  and  in  the  corner  placed 
A  lamp,  that  glimmered  through  its  misty  sphere 
Like  moonlit  marble,  on  a  pedestal 
Of  knotted  roots,  against  the  leafy  wall. 
The  air  was  dry,  the  night  was  calm  and  clear, 
And  in  the  dying  clover  crickets  chirped. 
The  Past,  I  felt,  the  Past  alone  usurped 
Our  thoughts,  —  the  hour  of  confidence  had  come, 
Of  sweet  confession,  tender  interchange, 
Which  drew  our  hearts  together,  yet  with  strange 
Half-dread  repelled  them.     Seeing  Ernest  dumb 
With  memories  of  the  spot,  as  if  to  me 
Belonged  the  right  his  secrets  to  evoke, 
And  Edith's  eyes  on  mine,  cousentingly, 
Conscious  of  all  I  wished  to  know,  I  spoke : 
"Dear  Friend,  one  volume  of  yaur  life  I  read 
Beneath  these  vines  :  you  placed  it  in  my  hand 
And  made  it  mine,  —  but  how  the  tale  has  sped 
Since  then,  I  know  not,  or  can  understand 
From  this  fair  ending  only.     Let  me  see 
The  intervening  chapters,  dark  and  bright, 


10 


THE  POET'S   JOURNAL. 


In  order,  as  you  lived  them.     Give  to-night 
Unto  the  Past,  dear  Ernest,  and  to  me  !  " 
Thus  I,  with  doubt  and  loving  hesitance, 
Lest  I  should  touch  a  nerve  he  fain  would  hide ; 
But  he,  with  calm  and  reassuring  glance, 
In  which  no  troubled  shadow  lay,  replied : 
"  That  mingled  light  and  darkness  are  no  more 
In  this  new  life,  than  are  the  sun  and  shade 
Of  painted  landscapes  :  distant  lies  the  shore 
Where  last  we  parted,  Philip :  how  I  made 
The  journey,  what  adventures  on  the  road, 
What  haps  I  met,  what  struggles,  what  success 
Of  fame,  or  gold,  or  place,  concerns  you  less, 
Dear  friend,  than  how  I  lost  that  sorest  load 
I  started  with,  and  came  to  dwell  at  last 
In  the  House  Beautiful.     There  but  remains 
A  fragment  here  and  there,  —  wild,  broken  strains 
And  scattered  voices  speaking  from  the  Past." 
"  Let  me  those  broken  voices  hear,"  I  said, 
"  And  I  shall  know  the  rest."     "  Well  —  be  it  so. 
You,  who  would  write  '  Resurgam  '  o'er  my  dead, 
The  resurrection  of  my  heart  shall  know." 

Then  Edith  rose,  and  up  the  terraces 
Went  swiftly  to  the  house ;  but  soon  we  spied 
Her  white  dress  gleam,  returning  through  the  trees, 
And,  softly  flushed,  she  came  to  Ernest's  side, 
A  volume  in  her  hand.    But  he  delayed 
Awhile  his  task,  revolving  leaf  by  leaf 
With  tender  interest,  now  that  ancient  grief 
No  more  had  power  to  make  his  heart  afraid  ; 
For  pain,  that  only  lives  in  memory, 
Like  battle-scars,  it  is  no  pain  to  show. 
"  Here,  Philip,  are  the  secrets  you  would  know," 
He  said :  "  Howe'er  obscure  the  utterance  be, 
The  lamp  you  lighted  in  the  olden  time 
Will  show  my  heart's-blood  beating  through  the  rhyme  ; 
A  poet's  journal,  writ  in  fire  and  tears 
At  first,  blind  protestations,  blinder  rage, 
(For  you  and  Edith  only,  many  a  page  !) 
Then  slow  deliverance,  with  the  gaps  of  years 
Between,  and  final  struggles  into  life, 
Which  the  heart  shrank  from,  as  't  were  death  instead." 
Then,  with  a  loving  glance  towards  his  wife, 
Which  she  as  fondly  answered,  thus  he  read :  — 


THE  TORSO. 


IK  ulay  the  statue  stood  complete, 
As  beautiful  a  form,  and  fair, 

As  ever  walked  a  Roman  street 
Or  breathed  the  blue  Athenian  air : 
The  perfect  limbs,  divinely  bare, 

Their  old,  heroic  freedom  kept, 
And  in  the  features,  fine  and  rare, 

A.  calm,  immortal  sweetness  slept. 


O'er  common  men  it  towered,  a  god, 

And  smote   their    meaner  life  witL 

shame, 
For  while  its  feet  the  highway  trod, 

Its    lifted   brow   was   crowned   with 
flame 

And  purified  from  touch  of  blame  : 
Yet  wholly  human  was  the  face, 

And  over  them  who  saw  it  came 
The  knowledge  of  their  own  disgrace. 


MAEAH. 


11 


It  stood,  regardless  of  the  crowd, 

And  simply  showed  what  men  might 

be: 
Its  solemn  beauty  disavowed 

The  curse  of  lost  humanity. 

Erect  and  proud,  and  pure  and  free, 
It  overlooked  each  loathsome  law 

Whereunto  others  bend  the  knee, 
And  only  what  was  noble  saw. 


The  patience  and  the  hope  of  years 
Their  final  hour  of  triumph  caught ; 

The  clay  was  tempered  with  my  tears, 
The  forces  of  my  spirit  wrought 
With    hands    of    tire   to   shape   my 
thought, 

That  when,  complete,  the  statue  stood, 
To  marble  resurrection  brought, 

The  Master  might  pronounce  it  good. 


But  in  the  night  an  enemy, 

Who  could  not  bear  the  wreath  should 

grace 
My  ready  forehead,  stole  the  key 

And  hurled  my  statue  from  its  base ; 
And   now   its   fragments    strew  the 

place 
Where  I  had  dreamed  its  shrine  might 

be: 

The  stains  of  common  earth  deface 
Its  beauty  and  its  majesty. 


The  torso  prone  before  me  lies ; 

The  cloven  brow  is  knit  with  pain  : 
Mute  lips,  and  blank,  reproachful  eyes 

Unto  my  hands  appeal  in  vain. 

My  hands  shall  never  work  again : 
My  hope  is  dead,  my  strength  is  spent : 

This  fatal  wreck  shall  now  remain 
The  ruined  sculptor's  monument. 


ON  THE  HEADLAND. 

I  SIT  on  the  lonely  headland, 

Where  the  sea-gulls  come  and  go : 

The  sky  is  gray  above  me, 
And  the  sea  is  gray  below. 

there  is  no  fisherman's  pinnace 
Homeward  or  outward  bound ; 


I  see  no  living  creature 

In  the  world's  deserted  round. 

I  pine  for  something  human, 
Man,  woman,  young  or  old,  — 

Something  to  meet  and  welcome, 
Something  to  clasp  and  hold. 

I  have  a  mouth  for  kisses, 

But  there 's  no  one  to  give  and  take 
I  have  a  heart  in  my  bosom 

Beating  for  nobody's  sake. 

0  warmth  of  love  that  is  wasted ! 
Is  there  none  to  stretch  a  hand  ? 

No  other  heart  that  hungers 
In  all  the  living  land  ? 

1  could  fondle  the  fisherman's  baby, 
And  rock  it  into  rest ; 

I  could  take  the  sunburnt  sailor, 
"  Like  a  brother,  to  my  breast. 

I  could  clasp  the  hand  of  any 

Outcast  of  land  or  sea, 
If  the  guilty  palm  but  answered 

The  tenderness  in  me  ! 

The  sea  might  rise  and  drown  me,  — 
Cliffs  fall  and  crush  my  head,  — 

Were  there  one  to  love  me,  living, 
Or  weep  to  see  me  dead ! 


MARAH. 

THE  waters  of  my  life  were  sweet, 
Before  that  bolt  of  sorrow  fell ; 

But  now,  though  fainting  with  the  heat, 
I  dare  not  drink  the  bitter  well. 

My  God !  shall  Sin  across  the  hean, 
Sweep  like  a  wind  that  leaves  no  trace 

But  Grief  inflict  a  rankling  smart 
No  after  blessing  can  efface  ? 

I  see  the  tired  mechanic  take 
His  evening  rest  beside  his  door, 

And  gentlier,  for  their  father's  sake, 
His  children  tread  the  happy  floor  : 

The  kitchen  teems  with  cheering  smells, 
Wi':h  clash  of  cups  and  clink  of  knives, 

And  all  the  household  picture  tells 
Of  humble  yet  contented  lives. 

Then  in  my  heart  the  serpents  hiss : 
What  right  have  these,  who  scarcely 
know 


12 


THE   POET  S   JOURNAL. 


The  perfect  sweetness  of  their  hliss, 
To  flaunt  it  thus  before  my  woe1? 

Like  bread,  Love's  portion  they  divide, 
Like  water  drink  his  precious  wine, 

When  the  least  crumb  they  cast  aside 
Were  manna  for  these  lips  of  mine. 

1  see  the  friend  of  other  days 

Lead  home  his  flushed  and  silent  bride ! 
His  eyes  are  suns  of  tender  praise, 

Her  eyes  are  stars  of  tender  pride. 

Go,  hide  your  shameless  happiness, 
The  demon  cries,  within  my  breast; 

Think  not  that  I  the  bond  can  bless, 
Which  seeing,  I  am  twice  unblest. 

The  husband  of  a  year  proclaims 
His  recent  honor,  shows  the  boy, 

And  calls  the  babe  a  thousand  names, 
And  dandles  it  in  awkward  joy : 

And  then — I  see  the  wife's  pale  cheek, 
Her  eyes  of  pure,  celestial  ray  — 

The  curse  is  choked  :  I  cannot  speak, 
But,  weeping,  turn  my  head  away ! 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  TEMPTER. 

LAST  night  the  Tempter  came  to  me, 

and  said : 

"  Why  sorrow  any  longer  for  the  dead  ? 
The  wrong   is    done  :    thy  tears   and 

groans  are  naught : 
Forget  the  Past,  —  thy  pain  but  lives 

in  thought. 

Night  after  night,  I  hear  thy  cries  im 
plore 
An   answer :  she  will  answer  thee  no 

more. 
Give  up  thine  idle  prayer  that  Death 

may  come 
And  thou  mayest  somewhere  find  her  : 

Death  is  dumb 
To  those  that  seek  him.   Live :  for  youth 

is  thine. 
Let  not  thy  rich  blood,  like  neglected 

wine, 
Grow  thin  and  stale,  but  rouse  thyself, 

at  last, 
And  take,  a  man's  revenge  upon   the 

Past. 
What  have  thy  virtues  brought  thee  ? 

Let  them  go, 
&nd  with  them  lose  the  burden  of  thy 

woe. 


Their  only   payment  for    thy   service 

hard : 
They  but  exact,  thou   see'st,  and   not 

reward. 

Thy  life  is  cheated,  thou  art  cast  aside 
In  dust,  the  worn-out  vessel  of   their 

pride. 
Come,  take  thy  pleasure  :  others  do  the 

same, 
And  love  is  theirs,  and  fortune,  name, 

and  fame  ! 
Let  not  the  name  of   Vice  thine  ear 

affright : 

Vice  is  no  darkness,  but  a  different  light, 
Which  thou  dost  need,  to  see  thy  path 

aright ; 

Or  if  some  pang  in  this  experience  lie, 
Through  counter-pain  thy  present  pain 

will  die. 
Bethink   thee   of   the   lost,   the   barren 

years, 

Of  harsh  privations,  unavailing  tears, 
The  steady  ache  of  strong  desires  re 
strained, 
And  what  thou  hast  deserved,  and  what 

obtained : 
Then  go,  thou  fool !  and,  if  thou  canst, 

rejoice 
To  make    such   base   ingratitude   thy 

choice, 

While  each  indulgence  which  thy  breth 
ren  taste 
But   mocks  thy  palate,  as  it   runs  to 

waste  !  " 

So  spake  the  Tempter,  as  he  held  out 
spread 

Alluring  pictures  round  my  prostrate 
head. 

'Twixt  sleep  and  waking,  in  my  help 
less  ear 

His  honeyed  voice  rang  musical  and 
clear ; 

And  half  persuaded,  shaken  half  with 
fear, 

I  heard  him,  till  the  Morn  began  to 
shine, 

And  found  her  brow  less  dewy-wet  than 
mine. 


EXORCISM. 

0  TONGUES  of  the  Past,  be  still ! 

Are  the  days  not  over  and  gone  ? 
The  joys  have  perished  that  were 
sweet, 

But  the  sorrow  still  lives  on. 


A  SYMBOL. 


13 


I  have  sealed  the  graves  of  my  hopes ; 

I  have  carried  the  pall  of  love  : 
Let  the  pains  and  pangs  be  buried  as 
deep, 

And  the  grass  be  as  green  above  ! 

But  the  ghosts  of  the  dead  arise  : 
They  come  when  the  board  is  spread ; 

They  poison  the  wine  of  the  banquet 

cups 
With  the  mould  their  lips  have  shed. 

The  pulse  of  the  bacchant  blood 
May  throb  in  the  ivy  wreath, 

But  the   berries  are  plucked  from  the 

nightshade  bough 
That  grows  in  the  gardens  of  Death. 

I  sleep  with  joy  at  my  heart, 
Warm  as  a  new-made  bride  ; 

But  a  vampire  comes  to  suck  her  blood, 
And  I  wake  with  a  corpse  at  my  side. 

0  ghosts,  I  have  given  to  you 
The  bliss  of  the  faded  years  ; 

The  sweat  of  my  brow,  the  blood  of  my 

heart, 
And  manhood's  terrible  tears ! 

Take  them,  and  be  content : 
I  have  nothing  more  to  give  : 

My  soul  is  chilled  in  the  house  of  Death, 
And  't  is  time  that  I  should  live. 

Take  them,  and  let  me  be  : 

Lie  still  in  the  churchyard  mould, 

Nor  chase  from  my  heart  each  new  de 
light 
With  the  phantom  of  the  old ! 


SQUANDERED   LIVES. 

THE  fisherman  wades  in  the  surges ; 

The  sailor  sails  over  the  sea ; 
The  soldier  steps  bravely  to  battle  ; 

The  woodman  lays  axe  to  the  tree. 

They  are  each  of  the  breed  of  the  he 
roes, 

The  manhood  attempered  in  strife  : 
Strong  hands,  that  go  lightly  to  labor, 

True  hearts,  that  take  comfort  in  life. 

In  each  is  the  seed  to  replenish 
The  world  with  the  vigor  it  needs,  — 

The  centre  of  honest  affections, 
The  impulse  to  generous  deeds. 


But  the  shark  drinks  the  blood  of  the 
fisher; 

The  sailor  is  dropped  in  the  sea  ; 
The  soldier  lies  cold  by  his  cannon  ; 

The  woodman  is  crushed  by  his  tree. 

Each  prodigal  life  that  is  wasted 
In  manly  achievement  unseen, 

But   lengthens  the   days  of  the   cow 
ard, 
And  strengthens  the  crafty  and  mean 

The  blood  of  the  noblest  is  lavished 
That  the  selfish  a  profit  may  find; 

But  God  sees  the  lives  that  are  squan 
dered, 
And  we  to  His  wisdom  are  blind. 


A  SYMBOL. 


HEAVY,  and  hot,  and  gray, 
Day  following  unto  day, 
A   felon    gang,  their   blind    life    drag 
away,  — 

Blind,  vacant,  dumb,  as  Time, 

Lapsed  from  his  wonted  prime, 

Begot  them  basely  in  incestuous  crime: 

So  little  life  there  seems 
About  the  woods  and  streams, — 
Only  a  sleep,  perplexed  with  nightmare- 
dreams. 

The  burden  of  a  sigh 
Stifles  the  weary  sky, 
Where    smouldering    clouds   in    ashen 
masses  lie : 

The  forests  fain  would  groan, 
But,  silenced  into  stone, 
Crouch,  in  the  dull  blue  vapors  round 
them  thrown. 

0  light,  more  drear  than  gloom  ! 
Than  death  more  dead  such  bloom  : 
Yet  life  —  yet  life  —  shall   burst   thia 
gathering  doom  ! 


Behold  !  a  swift  and  silent  fire 

Yon  dull  cloud  pierces,  in  the  west, 

And  blackening,  as  with  growing  ire, 
He  lifts  his  forehead  from  his  bre?«*- 


14 


THE   POET'S    JOUKNAL. 


He  IE  utters  to  the  ashy  host 

That  all  around  him  sleeping  lie, — , 
Sole  chieftain  on  the  airy  coast, 

To  fight  the  battles  of  the  sky. 

He  slowly  lifts  his  weary  strength, 
His  shadow  rises  on  the  day, 

And  distant  forests  feel  at  length 
A  wind  from  landscapes  far  away. 


How  shall  the  cloud  unload  its  thunder? 

How  shall  its  flashes  fire  the  air  ? 
Hills  and  valleys  are  dumb  with  won 
der  : 

Lakes  look  up  with  a  leaden  stare. 

Hark  !  the  lungs  of  the  striding  giant 
Bellow  an  angry  answer  back  ! 

Hurling  the   hair  from  his  brows  de 
fiant, 
Crushing  the  laggards  along  his  track. 

Now  his  step,  like  a  battling  Titan's, 
Scales  in  flame  the  hills  of  the  sky ; 


Struck  by  his  breath, the  forest  whitens; 
Fluttering  waters  feel  him  nigh  ! 

Stroke  on  stroke  of  his  thunder-ham 
mer  — 
Sheets    of    flame    from     his    anvil 

hurled  — 

Heaven's  doors  are  burst  in  the  clamor 
He  alone  possesses  the  world  ! 

IV. 

Drowned  woods,  shudder  no  more  : 
Vexed  lakes,  smile  as  before  : 
Hills  that  vanished,  appear  again  : 
llise  for  harvest,  prostrate  grain  ! 

Shake  thy  jewels,  twinkling  grass  : 
Blossoms,  tint  the  winds  that  pass : 
Sun,  behold  a  world  restored  ! 
World,  again  thy  son  is  lord  ! 

Thunder-spasms  the  waking  be 
Into  Life  from  Apathy  : 
Life,  not  Death,  is  in  the  gale,  — 
Let  the  coming  Doom  prevail ! 


Thus  far  he  read  :  at  first  with  even  tone, 
Still  chanting  in  the  old,  familiar  key,  — 
That  golden  note,  whose  grand  monotony 
Is  musical  in  poets'  mouths  alone, — 
But  broken,  as  he  read,  became  the  chime. 
To  speak,  once  more,  in  Grief's  forgotten  tongue, 
And  feel  the  hot  reflex  of  passion  flung 
Back  on  the  heart  by  every  pulse  of  rhyme 
Wherein  it  lives  and  burns,  a  soul  might  shake 
More  calm  than  his.     With  many  a  tender  break 
Of  voice,  a  dimness  of  the  haughty  eye, 
And  pause  of  wandering  memory,  he  read ; 
While  I,  with  folded  arms  and  downcast  head, 
In  silence  heard  each  blind,  bewildered  cry. 
Thus  far  had  Ernest  read  :  but,  closing  now 
The  book,  and  lifting  up  a  calmer  brow, 
"  Forgive  me,  patient  God,  for  this  !  "  he  said  : 
"  And  you  forgive,  dear  friend,  and  dearest  wife, 
If  I  have  marred  an  hour  of  this  sweet  life 
With  noises  from  the  valley  of  the  Dead. 
Long,  long  ago,  the  Hand  whereat  I  railed 
In  blindness  gave  me  courage  to  subdue 
This  wild  revolt  :  I  see  wherein  I  failed  : 
My  heart  was  false,  when  most  I  thought  it  true, 
My  sorrow  selfish,  when  I  thought  it  pure. 
For  those  we  lose,  if  still  their  love  endure 
Translation  to  that  other  land,  where  Love 
Breathes  the  immortal  wisdom,  ask  in  heaven 
No  greater  sacrifice  than  we  had  given 
On  earth,  our  love's  integrity  to  prove. 


SECOND   EVENING.  16 

If  we  are  blest  to  know  the  other  blest, 
Then  treason  lies  in  sorrow.     Vainly  said  1 
Alone  each  heart  must  cover  up  its  dead  ; 
Alone,  through  bitter  toil,  achieve  its  rest : 
Which  I  have  found  —  but  still  these  records  keep, 
Lest  I,  condemning  others,  should  forget 
My  own  rebellion.     From  these  tares  I  reap, 
In  evil  days,  a  fruitful  harvest  yet. 

"But 't  is  enough,  to-night.     Nay,  Philip,  here 
A  chapter  closes.     See  !  the  moon  is  near : 
Your  laurels  glitter  :  come,  my  darling,  sing 
The  hymn  I  wrote  on  such  a  night  as  this  ! 
Then  Edith,  stooping  first  to  take  his  kiss, 
Drew  from  its  niche  of  woodbine  her  guitar, 
With  chords  prelusive  tuned  a  slackened  string, 
And  sang,  clear-voiced,  as  some  melodious  star 
Were  dropping  silver  sweetness  from  afar : 

God,  to  whom  we  look  up  blindly, 
Look  Thou  down  upon  us  kindly : 
We  have  sinned,  but  not  designedly. 

If  our  faith  in  Thee  was  shaken, 
Pardon  Thou  our  hearts  mistaken, 
Our  obedience  reawaken. 

We  are  sinful,  Thou  art  holy : 
Thou  art  mighty,  we  are  lowly  : 
Let  us  reach  Thee,  climbing  slowly. 

Our  ingratitude  confessing, 

On  Thy  mercy  still  transgressing, 

Thou  dost  punish  us  with  blessing  I 


SECOND  EVENING. 

IT  was  the  evening  of  the  second  day, 
Which  swifter,  sweeter  than  the  first  had  fled : 
My  heart's  delicious  tumult  passed  away 
And  left  a  sober  happiness  instead. 
For  Ernest's  voice  was  ever  in  mine  ear, 
His  presence  mingled  as  of  old  with  mine, 
But  stronger,  manlier,  brighter,  more  divine 
Its  effluence  now  :  within  his  starry  sphere 
Of  love  new-risen  my  nature  too  was  drawn, 
And  warmed  with  rosy  flushes  of  the  dawn. 

All  day  we  drove  about  the  lovely  vales, 
Under  the  hill-side  farms,  through  summer  woodi, 
The  land  of  mingled  homes  and  solitudes 
That  Ernest  loved.     We  told  the  dear  old  tales 
Of  childhood,  music  new  to  Edith's  ear, 
Sang  olden  songs,  lived  old  adventures  o'er, 
And,  when  the  hours  brought  need  of  other  cheer, 
Spread  on  the  ferny  rocks  a  tempting  store 
Of  country  dainties      'T  was  our  favorite  dell, 


16 


THE  POET'S   JOURNAL. 


Cut  by  the  trout-stream  through  a  wooded  ridge  : 

Above,  the  highway  on  a  mossy  bridge 

Strode  o'er  it,  and  below,  the  water  fell 

Through  hornblende  bowlders,  where  the  dircus  flung 

His  pliant  rods,  the  berried  spice-wood  grew, 

And  tulip-trees  and  smooth  magnolias  hung 

A  million  leaves  between  us  and  the  blue. 

The  silver  water-dust  in  puffs  arose 

And  turned  to  dust  of  jewels  in  the  sun, 

And  like  a  canon,  in  its  close  begun 

Afresh,  the  stream's  perpetual  lullaby 

Sang  down  the  dell,  and  deepened  its  repose. 

Here,  till  the  western  hours  had  left  the  sky, 

We  sat :  then  homeward  loitered  througrfthe  dusk 

Of  chestnut  woods,  along  the  meadow-side, 

And  lost  in  lanes  that  breathed  ambrosial  musk 

Of  wild-grape  blossoms  :  and  the  twilight  died. 

Long  after  every  star  came  out,  we  paced 
The  terrace,  still  discoursing  on  the  themes 
The  day  had  started,  intermixed  with  dreams 
.Born  of  the  summer  night.     Then,  golden-faced, 
Behind  her  daybreak  of  auroral  gleams, 
The  moon  arose :  the  bosom  of  the  lawn 
Whitened  beneath  her  silent  snow  of  light, 
Save  where  the  trees  made  isles  of  mystic  night, 
Dark  blots  against  the  rising  splendor  drawn, 
And  where  the  eastern  wall  of  woodland  towered, 
Blue  darkness,  rilled  with  undistinguished  shapes: 
But  elsewhere,  over  all  the  landscape  showered  — 
A  silver  drizzle  on  the  distant  capes 
Of  hills  —  the  glory  of  the  moon.     We  sought, 
Drawn  thither  by  the  same  unspoken  thought, 
The  mound,  where  now  the  leaves  of  laurel  clashed 
Their  dagger-points  of  light,  around  the  bower, 
And  through  the  nets  of  leaf  and  elfin  flower, 
Cold  fire,  the  sprinkled  drops  of  moonshine  flashed. 

Erelong  in  Ernest's  hand  the  volume  lay, 
(I  did  not  need  a  second  time  to  ask,) 
And  he  resumed  the  intermitted  task. 
"  This  night,  dear  Philip,  is  the  Poet's  day," 
He  said  :  "  the  world  is  one  confessional : 
Our  sacred  memories  as  freely  fall 
As  leaves  from  o'er-ripe  blossoms :  we  betray 
Ourselves  to  Nature,  who  the  tale  can  win 
We  shrink  from  uttering  in  the  daylight's  din. 
So,  Friend,  come  back  with  me  a  little  way 
Along  the  years,  and  in  these  records  find 
The  sole  inscriptions  they  have  left  behind." 


ATONEMENT. 

IF  thou  hadst  died  at  midnight, 
With  a  lamp  beside  thy  bed  ; 

The  beauty  of  sleep  exchanging 
For  the  beauty  of  the  dead  : 


When   the  bird  of  heaven  had  callec 

thee, 

And  the  time  had  come  to  go, 
And   the   northern    lights   were   danc 
ing 
On  the.dim  December  snow, — 


SYLVAN   SPIRITS. 


17 


If  thou  hadst  died  at  midnight, 
I  had  ceased  to  bid  thee  stay, 

Hearing  the  feet  of  the  Father 
Leading  His  child  away. 

I  had  knelt,  in  the  awful  Presence, 
And  covered  my  guilty  head, 

And  received  His  absolution 
For  my  sins  toward  the  dead. 

But  the  cruel  sun  was  shining 

In  the  cold  and  windy  sky, 
And  Life,  with  his  mocking  voices, 

Looked  in  to  see  thee  die. 

God  came  and  went  unheeded ; 

No  tear  repentant  shone  ; 
And  he  took  the  heart  from  my  bosom, 

And  left  in  its  place  a  stone. 

Each  trivial  promise  broken, 

Each  tender  word  unsaid, 
Must  be  evermore  unspoken,  — 

Unpardoned  by  the  dead. 

Unpardoned  ?     No  :  the  struggle 
Of  years  was  not  in  vain,  — 

The  patience  that  wearies  passion, 
And  the  prayers  that  conquer  pain. 

This  tardy  resignation 

May  be  the  blessed  sign 
Of  pardon  and  atonement, 

Thy  spirit  sends  to  mine. 

Now  first  I  dare  remember 
That  day  of  death  and  woe  : 

Within,  the  dreadful  silence, 
Without,  the  sun  and  snow  ! 


DECEMBER. 

THE  beech  is  bare,  and  bare  the  ash, 

The  thickets  white  below ; 
The  fir-tree  scowls  with  hoar  moustache, 

He  cannot  sing  for  snow. 

The  body-guard  of  veteran  pines, 

A  grim  battalion,  stands  ; 
They  ground   their   arms,   in  ordered 
lines, 

For  Winter  so  commands. 

The  waves  are  dumb  along  the  shore, 

The  river's  pulse  is  still ; 
The  north-wind's  bugle,  blows  no  more 

Reveille  from  the  hill. 
2 


The  rustling  sift  of  falling  snow, 
The  muffled  crush  of  \eaves, 

These  are  the  sounds  suppressed,  that 

show 
How  much  the  forest  grieves; 

But,  as  the  blind  and  vacant  Day 

Crawls  to  his  ashy  bed, 
I  hear  dull  echoes  far  away, 

Like  drums  above  the  dead. 

Sigh  with  me,  Pine  that  never  changed ! 

Thou  wear'st  the  Summer's  hue  ; 
Her  other  loves  are  all  estranged, 

But  thou  and  I  are  true  ! 


SYLVAN   SPIRITS. 

THE  gray  stems  rise,  the  branches  braid 
A  covering  of  deepest  shade. 
Beneath  these  old,  inviolate  trees 
There  comes  no  stealthy,  sliding  breeze, 
To  overhear  their  mysteries. 

Steeped  in  the  fragrant  breath  of  leaves, 
My  heart  a  hermit  peace  receives  : 
The  sombre  forest  thrusts  a  screen 
My  refuge  and  the  world  between, 
And  beds  me  in  its  balmy  green. 

No  fret  of  life  may  here  intrude, 
To  vex  the  sylvan  solitude. 
Pure  spirits  of  the  earth  and  air, 
From  hollow  trunk  and  bosky  lair 
Come    forth,    and    hear    your    lover's 
prayer ! 

Come,  Druid  soul  of  ancient  oak, 
Thou,  too,  hast  felt  the  thunder-stroke ; 
Come,  Hamadryad  of  the  beech, 
Nymph  of  the  burning  maple,  teach 
My  heart  the  solace  of  your  speech  ! 

Alas  !  the  sylvan  ghosts  preserve 
The  natures  of  the  race  they  serve 
Not  only  Dryads,  chaste  and  shy, 
But  piping  Fauns,  come  dancing  nigh, 
And  Satyrs  of  the  shaggy  thigh. 

Across  the  calm,  the  holy  hush, 
And  shadowed  air,  there  darts  a  flush 
Of  riot,  from  the  lawless  brood, 
And  rebel  voices  in  my  blood 
Salute  these  orgies  of  the  wood. 

Not  sacred  thoughts  alone  engage 
The  saiut  in  silent  hermitage  : 


18 


THE  POET'S  JOURNAL. 


The  soul  within  him  heavenward  strives, 
Yet  strong,  as  in  profaner  lives, 
The  giant  of  the  flesh  survives. 

From  Nature,  as  from  human  haunts, 
That  giant  draws  his  sustenance. 
By  her  own  elves,  in  woodlands  wild 
She  sees  her  robes  of  prayer  denied  : 
She  is  not  purer  than  her  child. 


THE  LOST  MAY. 

WHEN  May,  with  cowslip-braided  locks, 
Walks  through  the  land  in  green  at 
tire, 

And  burns  in  meadow-grass  the  phlox 
His  torch  of  purple  fire  : 

When  buds  have  burst  the  silver  sheath, 
And  shifting  pink,  and  gray,  and  gold 
Steal    o'er   the   woods,   while   fair   be 
neath 
The  bloomy  vales  unfold  : 

When,    emerald-bright,    the     hemlock 

stands 

New-feathered,  needled  new  the  pine; 
And,  exiles  from  the  orient  lands, 
The  turbaned  tulips  shine : 

When  wild  azaleas  deck  the  knoll, 
And  cinque-foil    stars    the  fields  of 

home, 
And  winds,   that  take  the  white-weed, 

roll 
The  meadows  into  foam  : 

Then  from  the  jubilee  I  turn 

To  other  Mays  that  I  have  seen, 
Where  more  resplendent  blossoms  burn. 
And  statelier  woods  are  green  ;  — 

Mays,  when  my  heart  expanded  first, 

A  honeyed  blossom,  fresh  with  dew ; 
And  one  sweet  wind  of  heaven  dispersed 
The  only  clouds  I  knew. 

For  she,  whose  softly-murmured  name 

The  music  of  the  month  expressed, 
Walked  by  my  side,  in  holy  shame 
Of  girlish  love  confessed. 

The  budding  chestnuts  overhead, 
Their     sprinkled     shadows     in    the 

lane,  — 

Blue  flowers  along  the  brooklet's  bed, — 
I  see  them  all  again  ! 


The  old,  old  tale  of  girl  and  boy, 

Repeated  ever,  never  old  : 
To  each  in  turn  the  gates  of  joy, 
The  gates  of  heaven  unfold. 

And  when  the  punctual  May  arrives, 
With  cowslip-garland  on  her  brow, 
We  know  what  once  she  g*vo  our  lives, 
And  cannot  give  us  now  : 


CHURCHYARD  ROSES. 

THE  woodlands  wore  a  gloomy  green, 
The  tawny  stubble  clad  the  hill, 

And  August  hung  her  smoky  screen 
Above  the  valleys,  hot  and  still. 

No  life  was  in  the  fields  that  day ; 

My  steps  were  safe  from  curious  eyes 
I  wandered  where,  in  churchyard  clay, 

The  dust  of  love  and  beauty  lies. 

Around  me  thrust  the  nameless  graves 
Their  fatal  ridges,  side  by  side, 

So  green,  they  seemed  but  grassy  waves, 
Yet  quiet  as  the  dead  they  hide. 

And  o'er  each  pillow  of  repose 
Some  innocent  memento  grew, 

Of  pansy,  pink,  or  lowly  rose, 
Or  hyssop,  lavender,  and  rue. 

What  flower  is  hers,  the  maiden  Iride? 

What  sacred  plant  protects  her  bed  ? 
I  saw,  the  greenest  mound  beside, 

A  rose  of  dark  and  lurid  red. 

An  eye  of  fierce  demoniac  stain, 

It   mocked  my  calm   and  chastened 
grief ; 

I  tore  it,  stung  with  sudden  pain, 

And  stamped  in  earth  each  bloody  leaf. 

And  down  upon  that  trampled  grave 
In  recklessness  my  body  cast : 

"  Give  back  the  life  I  could  not  save, 
Or  give  deliverance  from  the  Past !  " 

But  something  gently  touched  my  cheek, 
Caressing  while  its  touch  reproved  : 

A  rose,  all  white  and  snowy-meek, 
It  grew  upon  the  dust  I  loved  ! 

A  breeze  the  holy  blossom  pressed 
Upon  my  lips  :  dear  Saint,  I  cried, 

Still  blooms  the  white  rose,  in  my  breast, 
Of  Love,  that  Death  has  sanctified !  ,~ 


YOUNG   LOVE. 


19 


AUTUMNAL  DREAMS. 


the  maple  turns  to  crimson 
And  the  sassafras  to  gold ; 

When  the  gentian  's  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  aster  on  the  wold  ; 

When  the  noon  is  lapped  in  vapor, 
And  the  night  is  frosty-cold : 


When  the  chestnut-burs  are  opened, 
And  the  acorns  drop  like  hail, 

And  the  drowsy  air  is  startled 
With  the  thumping  of  the  flail,  — 

With  the  drumming  of  the  partridge 
And  the  whistle  of  the  quail : 


Through    the    rustling  woods   I 
der, 

Through  the  jewels  of  the  year, 
From  the  yellow  uplands  calling, 

Seeking  her  that  still  is  dear: 
She  is  near  me  in  the  autumn, 

She,  the  beautiful,  is  near. 


Through  the  smoke  of  burning 
mer, 

When  the  weary  winds  are  still, 
I  can  see  her  in  the  valley, 

I  can  hear  her  on  the  hill,  — 
\n  the  splendor  of  the  woodlands, 

In  the  whisper  of  the  rill. 


For  the  shores  of  Earth  and  Heaven 
Meet,  and  mingle  in  the  blue  : 

She  can  wander  down  the  glory 
To  the  places  that  she  knew, 

Where  the  happy  lovers  wandered 
In  the  days  when  life  was  true. 


So  I  think,  when  days  are  sweetest, 
And  the  world  is  wholly  fair, 

She  may  sometime  steal  upon  me 
Through  the  dimness  of  the  air, 

With  the  cross  upon  her  bosom 
And  the  amaranth  in  her  hair. 


Once  to  meet  her,  ah  !  to  meet  her, 
And  to  hold  her  gently  fasf; 

Till  I  blessed  her,  till  she  blessed  me,- 
That  were  happiness,  at  last : 

That  were  bliss  beyond  our  meetings 
In  the  autumns  of  the  Past ! 


IN  WINTER. 

THE  valley  stream  is  frozen, 
The  hills  are  cold  and  bare, 

And  the  wild  white  bees  of  winter 
Swarm  in  the  darkened  air. 

I  look  on  the  naked  forest : 
Was  it  ever  green  in  June  ? 

Did  it  burn  with  gold  and  crimson 
In  the  dim  autumnal  noon  3 

I  look  on  the  barren  meadow  : 
Was  it  ever  heaped  with  hay  ? 

Did  it  hide  the  grassy  cottage 

Where  the  skylark's  children  lay  1 

I  look  on  the  desolate  garden  : 
Is  it  true  the  rose  was  there  ? 

And  the  woodbine's  musky  blossoms, 
And  the  hyacinth's  purple  hair  ? 

I  look  on  my  heart,  and  marvel 
If  Love  were  ever  its  own,  — 

If  the  spring  of  promise  brightened, 
And  the  summer  of  passion  shone  ? 

Is  the  stem  of  bliss  but  withered, 
And  the  root  survives  the  blast  ? 

Are  the  seeds  of  the  Future  sleeping 
Under  the  leaves  of  the  Past  ? 

Ah,  yes !  for  a  thousand  Aprils 
The  frozen  germs  shall  grow, 

And  the  dews  of  a  thousand  summers, 
Wait  in  the  womb  of  the  snow ! 


YOUNG  LOVE. 

WE  are  not  old,  we  are  not  cold, 

Our  hearts  are  warm  and  tender  yet , 

Our  arms  are  eager  to  enfold 
More  bounteous  love  than  we  have 
met. 

Still  many  another  heart  lays  bare 
Its  secret  chamber  to  our  eyes, 


20 


THE   POET  S   JOURNAL. 


Though  dim  with  passion's  lurid  air, 
Or  pure  as  morns  of  Paradise. 

They  give  the  love,  whose  glory  lifts 
Desire  beyond  the  realm  of  sense  ; 

They  make  us  rich  with  lavish  girts, 
The  wealth  of  uoble  confidence. 

We  must  be  happy,  must  be  proud, 
So    crowned  with   human  trust  and 
truth ; 

But  ah  !  the  love  that  first  we  vowed, 
The  dear  religion  of  our  youth! 

Voluptuous  bloom  and  fragrance  rare 
The  summer  to  its  rose  may  bring  j 

Far  sweeter  to  the  wooing  air 
The  hidden  violet  of  the  spring. 

Still,  still  that  lovely  ghost  appears, 
Too  fair,  too  pure,  to  bid  depart ; 

No  riper  love  of  later  years 

Can  steal  its  beauty  from  the  heart. 

0  splendid  sun  that  shone  above ! 

0  green  magnificence  of  Earth  ! 
Born  once  into  that  land  of  love, 

No  life  can  know  a  second  birth. 

Dear,  boyish  heart,  that  trembled  so 
With  bashful  fear  and  fond  unrest, — 

More  frightened  than  a  dove,  to  know 
Another  bird  within  its  nest ! 

Sharp  thrills  of  doubt,  wild  hopes  that 

camer 
Fond  words  addressed,  —  each  word 

a  pang : 
Then  —  hearts,  baptized    in  heavenly 

flame, 
How  like  the  morning  stars  ye  sang  ! 

tove  bound  ye  with  his  holiest  link, 
The  faith  in  each  that  ask  no  more, 

And  led  ye  from  the  sacred  brink 
Of  masteries  he  held  in  store. 

love  led  ye,  children,  from  the  bowers 
Where  Strength  and  Beauty  find  his 

crown : 

Ye  were  not  ripe  for  mortal  flowers ; 
God's    angel    brought   an  amaranth 
down. 

Our  eyes  are  dim  with  fruitless  tears, 
Uur  eyes  are  dim,  our  hearts  are  sore  : 

That  lost  religion  of  our  years 
Comes  never,  never,  nevermore ! 


THE  CHAPEL. 

LIKE    one    who   leaves   the   trampled 

street 

For  some  cathedral,  cool  and  dim, 
Where  he  can  hear  in  music  beat 
The  heart  of  prayer,  that  beats  for 
him ; 

And  sees  the  common  light  of  day, 
Through  painted  panes,  transfigured, 
shine, 

And  casts  his  human  woes  away, 
In  presence  of  the  Woe  Divine  : 

So  I,  from  life's  tormenting  themes 
Turn  where  the  silent  chapel  lies, 

Whose  windows    burn  with    vanished 

dreams, 
Whose  altar-lights  are  memories. 

There,  watched  by  pitying  cherubim, 
In  sacred  hush,  I  rest  awhile, 

Till  solemn  sounds  of  harp  and  hymn 
Begin  to  sweep  the  haunted  aisle : 

A  hymn  that  once  but  breathed  com 
plaint, 

And  breathes  but  resignation  now, 
Since    God    has    heard    the    pleading 

saint, 
And  laid  His  hand  upon  my  brow. 

Restored  and  comforted,  I  go 
To  grapple  with  my  tasks  again ; 

Through  silent  worship  taught  to  know 
The  blessed  peace  that  follows  pain. 


IF  LOVE  SHOULD  COME  AGAIN. 

IF  Love  should  come  again,  I  ask  my 

heart 
In  tender  tremors,  not  unmixed  with 

pain, 
Couldst  thou  be  calm,  nor  feel  thine 

ancient  smart, 
If  Love  should  cone  again  ? 

Couldst  thou  unbar  the  chambers  where 

his  nest 
So  long  was  made,  and  made,  alas 

in  vain, 
Nor  with  embarrassed  welcome  chill  thy 

guest, 
If  Love  should  come  again  1 


IF  LOVE   SHOULD   COME  AGAIN.  21 


Would  Love  his  ruined  quarters  recog 
nize, 
Where  shrouded  pictures  of  the  Past 

remain, 
And  gently  turn  them  with  forgiving 

eyes, 
If  Love  should  come  again  ? 

Would  bliss,  in  milder  type,  spring  up 

anew, 

As  silent  craters  with  the  scarlet  stain 
Of  flowers  repeat  the  lava's  ancient  hue, 
If  Love  should  come  again  1 


Would  Fate,  relenting,  sheathe  the  cruel 

blade 
Whereby  the  angel  of  thy  youth  was 

slain, 

That  thou  might'st  all  possess  him,  un 
afraid, 
If  Love  should  come  again  ? 

In  vain  I  ask :  my  heart  makes  no  reply, 
But  echoes  evermore  the  sweet  re 
frain  ; 

Till,  trembling  lest  it  seem  a  wish,  I  sigh : 
If  Love  should  come  again . 


"  The  darkness  and  the  twilight  have  an  end," 
Said  Ernest,  as  he  laid  the  book  aside, 
And,  with  a  tenderness  he  could  not  hide, 
Smiled,  seeing  in  the  eyes  of  wife  and  friend 
The  same  soft  dew  that  made  his  own  so  dim. 
My  heart  was  strangely  moved,  but  not  for  him. 
The  holy  night,  the  stars  that  twinkled  faint, 
Serfs  of  the  regnant  moon,  the  slumbering  trees 
And  silvery  hills,  recalled  fair  memories 
Of  her  I  knew,  his  life's  translated  saint, 
Who  seemed  too  sacred  now,  too  far  removed, 
To  be  by  him  lamented  or  beloved. 
And  yet  she  stood,  I  knew,  by  Ernest's  side 
Invisible,  a  glory  in  the  heart, 
A  light  of  peace,  the  inner  counterpart 
Of  that  which  round  us  poured  its  radiant  tide. 

We  sat  in  silence,  till  a  wind,  astray 

From  some  uneasy  planet,  shook  the  vines 

And  sprinkled  us  with  snow  of  eglantines. 

The  laurels  rustled  as  it  passed  away, 

And,  million-tongued,  the  woodland  whisper  crept 

Of  leaves  that  turned  in  sleep,  from  tree  to  tree 

All  down  the  lawn,  and  once  again  they  slept. 

Then  Edith  from  her  tender  fantasy 

Awoke,  yet  still  her  pensive  posture  kept, 

Her  white  hands  motionless  upon  her  knee, 

Her  eyes  upon  a  star  that  sparkled  through 

The  mesh  of  leaves,  and  hummed  a  wandering  aifk 

(As  if  the  music  of  her  thoughts  it  were,) 

Low,  sweet,  and  sad,  until  to  words  it  grew 

That  made  it  sweeter,  —  words  that  Ernest  knew : 

Love,  I  follow,  follow  thee, 

Wipe  thine  eyes  and  thou  shalt  see  : 

Sorrow  makes  thee  blind  to  me. 

I  am  with  thee,  blessing,  blest; 
Let  thy  doubts  be  laid  to  rest : 
Rise,  and  take  me  to  thy  breast  1 

In  thy  bliss  my  steps  behold : 
Stretch  thine  arms  and  bliss  enfold: 
'Tis  thy  sorrow  makes  me  cold 


THE  POET'S   JOURNAL. 

Life,  is  good,  and  life  is  fair, 
Love  awaits  thee  everywhere: 
Love  !  is  Love's  immortal  prayer. 

Live  for  love,  and  thou  shall  be, 
Loving  others,  true  to  me : 
Love,  I  follow,  follow  thee  ' 

Thus  Edith  sang  :  the  stars  heard,  and  the  night, 

The  happy  spirits,  leaning  from  the  wall 

Of  Heaven,  the  saints,  and  God  above  them  all, 

Heard  what  she  sang.    She  ceased :  her  brow  was  bright 

With  other  splendor  than  the  moon's :  she  rose, 

Gave  each  a  hand,  and  silently  we  trod 

The  dry,  white  gravel  and  the  dewy  sod, 

And  silently  we  parted  for  repose. 


THIKD  EVENING. 

FOR  days  before,  the  wild-dove  cooed  for  rain. 
The  sky  had  been  too  bright,  the  world  too  fair. 
We  knew  such  loveliness  could  not  remain  : 
We  heard  its  ruin  by  the  flattering  air  • 
Foretold,  that  o'er  the  field  so  sweetly  blew, 
Yet  came,  at  night,  a  banshee,  moaning  through 
The  chimney's  throat,  and  at  the  window  wailed : 
We  heard  the  tree-toad  trill  his  piercing  note  : 
The  sound  seemed  near  us,  when,  on  farms  remote, 
The  supper-horn  the  scatiered  workmen  hailed : 
Above  the  roof  the  eastward-pointing  vane 
Stood  fixed :  and  still  the  wild-dove  cooed  for  rain. 

So,  when  the  morning  came,  and  found  no  fire 

Upon  her  hearth,  and  wrapped  her  shivering  form 

In  cloud,  and  rising  winds  in  many  a  gyre 

Of  dust  foreran  the  footsteps  of  the  storm, 

And  woods  grew  dark,  and  flowery  meadows  chill, 

And  gray  annihilation  smote  the  hill, 

I  said  to  Ernest :  "  'T  was  my  plan,  you  see  : 

Two  days  to  Nature,  and  the  third  to  me. 

For  you  must  stay,  perforce  :  the  day  is  doomed. » 

No  visitors  shall  yonder  valley  find, 

Except  the  spirits  of  the  rain  and  wind  : 

Here  you  must  bide,  my  friends,  with  me  entombed 

In  this  dim  crypt,  where  shelved  around  us  lie 

The  mummied  authors."    "  Place  me,  when  I  die," 

Laughed  Ernest,  "  in  as  fair  a  catacomb, 

I  shall  not  call  posterity  unjust, 

That  leaves  my  bones  in  Shakespeare's,  Goethe's  homa, 

Like  king  and  beggar  mixed  in  Memphian  dust. 

But  you  are  right :  this  day  we  well  may  give 

To  you,  dear  Philip,  and  to  those  who  stand 

Protecting  Nature  with  a  jealous  hand, 

At  once  her  subjects  and  her  haughty  lords  ; 

Since,  in  the  breath  of  their  immortal  words 

Alone,  she  first  begins  to  speak  and  live." 


THIRD   EVENING.  23 

I  kn<  w  not,  if  that  day  of  dreary  rain 

Was  not  the  happiest  of  the  happy  three. 

For  Nature  gives,  but  takes  away  again  : 

Sound,  odor,  color  —  blossom,  cloud,  and  tree 

Divide  and  scatter  in  a  thousand  rays 

Our  individual  being  :  but,  in  days 

Of  gloom,  the  wandering  senses  crowding  come 

To  the  close  circle  of  the  heart.    So  we, 

Cosily  nestled  in  the  library, 

Enjoyed  each  other  and  the  warmth  of  home. 

Each  window  was  a  picture  of  the  rain  : 

Blown  by  the  wind,  tormented,  wet,  and  gray, 

Losing  itself  in  cloud,  the  landscape  lay ; 

Or  wavered,  blurred,  behind  the  streaming  pane 

Or,  with  a  sudden  struggle,  shook  away 

Its  load,  and  like  a  foundering  ship  arose 

Distinct  and  dark  above  the  driving  spray, 

Until  a  fiercer  onset  came,  to  close 

The  hopeless  day.     The  roses  writhed  about 

Their  stakes,  the  tall  laburnums  to  and  fro 

Rocked  in  the  gusts,  the  flowers  were  beaten  low, 

And  from  his  pygmy  house  the  wren  looked  out 

With  dripping  bill :  each  living  creature  fled, 

To  seek  some  sheltering  cover  for  its  head : 

Yet  colder,  drearier,  wilder  as  it  blew 

We  drew  the  closer,  and  the  happier  grew. 

She  with  her  needle,  he  with  pipe  and  book, 
My  guests  contented  sat :  my  cheerful  dame, 
Intent  on  household  duties,  went  and  came, 
And  I  unto  my  childless  bosom  took 
The  little  two-year  Arthur,  Ernest's  child, 
A  darling  boy,  to  both  his  parents  true,  — 
With  father's  brow,  and  mother's  eyes  of  blue, 
And  the  same  dimpled  beauty  when  he  smiled. 
Ah  me  !  the  father's  heart  within  me  woke  : 
The  child  that  never  was,  I  seemed  to  hold  : 
The  withered  tenderness  that  bloomed  of  old 
In  vain,  revived  when  little  Arthur  spoke 
Of  "  Papa  Philip ! "  and  his  balmy  kiss 
Renewed  lost  yearnings  for  a  father's  bliss. 
And  something  glittered  in  the  boy's  bright  hair : 
I  kissed  him  back,  but  turned  away  my  head 
To  hide  the  pang  I  would  not  have  thee  share, 
Dear  wife  !  from  whom  the  dearest  promise  fled. 
God  cannot  chide  so  sacred  a  despair, 
But  still  I  dream  that  somewhere  there  must  be 
The  spirit  of  a  child  that  waits  for  me. 

And  evening  fell,  and  Arthur,  rosy-limbed 
And  snowy-gowned,  in  human  beauty  sweet, 
Came  pattering  up  with  little  naked  feet 
To  kiss  the  good-night  cup,  that  overbrimmed 
With  love  two  fathers  and  two  mothers  gave. 
The  steady  rain  against  the  windows  drave, 
And  round  the  house  the  noises  of  the  night 
Mixed  in  a  lulling  music  :  dry  old  wood 
Burned  on  the  hearth  in  leaps  of  ruddy  light, 


24 


THE   POET  S  JOURNAL. 


And  on  the  table  purple  beakers  stood 

Of  harmless  wine,  from  grapes  that  ripened  on 

The  sunniest  hillsides  of  the  smooth  Garonne. 

When  Arthur  slept,  and  doors  were  closed,  and  we 

Sat  folded  in  a  sweeter  privacy 

Than  even  the  secret-loving  moon  bestows, 

Spoke  Ernest :  "  Edith,  shall  I  read  the  rest  ?  " 

She,  while  the  spirit  of  a  happy  rose 

Visited  her  cheeks,  consenting  smiled,  and  pressed 

The  hand  he  gave.    "  With  what  I  now  shall  read," 

He  added,  "  Philip,  you  must  be  content. 

No  further  runs  my  journal,  nor,  indeed, 

Beyond  this  chapter  is  there  further  need ; 

Because  the  gift  of  Song  was  chiefly  lent 

-To  give  consoling  music  for  the  joys 

We  lack,  and  not  for  those  which  we  possess  : 

I  now  no  longer  need  that  gift,  *o  bless 

My  heart,  — your  heart,  my  Edith,  and  your  boy's  !  " 

Therewith  he  read  :  the  fingers  of  the  rain 
In  light  staccatos  on  the  window  played, 
Mixed  with  the  flame's  contented  hum,  and  made 
Low  harmonies  to  suit  the  varied  strain. 


THE  RETURN  OF  SPRING. 

HAVE  I  passed  through  Death's  uncon 
scious  birth, 

In  a  dream  the  midnight  bare  ? 
I  look  on  another  and  fairer  Earth : 

I  breathe  a  wondrous  air  ! 

A  spirit  of  beauty  walks  the  hills, 

A  spirit  of  love  the  plain ; 
The  shadows  are  bright,  and  the  sun 
shine  fills 

The  air  with  a  diamond  rain  ! 

Before  my  vision  the  glories  swim, 
To  the  dance  of  a  tune  unheard  : 

Is  an  angel  singing  where  woods  are 

dim, 
Or  is  it  an  amorous  bird  ? 

Is  it  a  spike  of  azure  flowers, 

Deep  in  the  meadows  seen, 
Or  is  it  the  peacock's  neck,  that  towers 

Out  of  the  spangled  green  ? 

Is  a  white  dove  glancing  across  the  blue, 

Or  an  opal  taking  wing  ? 
Far  my  soul  is  dazzled  through  and 
through, 

With  the  splendor  of  the  Spring. 

Is  it  she  that  shines,  as  never  before, 
The  tremulous  hills  above,  — 


Or  the  heart  within  me,  awake  once  more 
To  the  dawning  light  of  love  ? 

MORNING. 

ALONG  the  east,  where  late  the  dark 
impended, 

A  dusky  gleam  is  born  : 
The  watches  of  the  night  are  ended, 

And  heaven  foretells  the  morn  ! 

The  hills  of  home,  no  longer  hurled  to 
gether, 

In  one  wide  blotch  of  night, 
Lift  up  their  heads  through  misty  ether, 

Distinct  in  rising  light. 

Then,  after  pangs  of  darkness  slowly 
dying, 

0  er  the  delivered  world 

Comes  Morn,  with  every  banner  flying 
And  every  sail  unfurled  ! 

So  long  the  night,  so  chill,  so  blank  and 
dreary, 

1  thought  the  sun  was  dead ; 
But  yonder  burn  his  beacons  cheery 

On  peaks  of  cloudy  red  : 

And  yonder  fly  his  scattered  golden  at 

rows, 
And  smite  the  hills  with  day, 


LOVE  RETURNED. 


25 


WTiile  Night  her  vain  dpjninion  narrows 
And  westward  wheels  away. 

A  sweeter  air  revives  the  new  creation, 
The  dews  are  tears  of  bliss, 

And  Earth,  in  amorous  palpitation, 
Receives  her  bridegroom's  kiss. 

Bathed  ir.  ihe  morning,  let  my  heart 

surrender 

The  doubts  that  darkness  gave, 
And  rise  to  meet  the  advancing  splen 
dor — 
O  Night !  no  more  thy  slave. 

I  breathe  at  last,  thy  gloomy  reign  for 
getting, 

Thy  weary  watches  done, 
Thy  last  pale  star  behind  me  setting, 

The  freedom  of  the  sun  ! 


THE  VISION. 


SHE  came,  long  absent  from  my  side, 
And   absent   from   my  dreams,   she 
came, 

The  earthly  and  the  heavenly  bride, 

In  maiden  beauty  glorified  : 

She  looked  upon  me,  angel-eyed  : 
She  called  me  by  my  name. 


But  I,  whose  heart  to  meet  her  sprang 
And    shook   the    fragile    house    of 

dreams, 

Stood,  smitten  with  a  guilty  pang  : 
In  other  groves  and  temples  rang 
The  songs  that  once  for  her  I  sang, 
By  woods  and  faery  streams. 


Her  eyes  had  power  to  lift  my  head, 

And,  timorous  as  a  truant  child, 
I  met  the  sacred  light  they  shed, 
The  light  of  heaven  around  her  spread  : 
She  read  my  face ;  no  word  she  said  : 
I  only  saw  she  smiled. 


*  Canst  thou  forgive  me,  Angel  mine," 
I  cried  ;  "  that  Love  at  last  beguiled 
My  heart  to  build  a  second  shrine  1 


See,  still  I  kneel  and  weep  at  thine, 
But  I  am  human,  thou  divine  !  " 
Still  silently  she  smiled. 


"  Dost  undivided  worship  claim, 
To  keep  thine  altar  undefined  ? 

Or  must  I  bear  thy  tender  blame, 

And  in  thy  pardon  feel  my  shame. 

Whene'er  I  breathe  another  name  ? 
She  looked  at  me,  and  smiled. 


"  Speak,  speak ! "   and  then  my  tears 

came  fast, 
My  troubled  heart  with  doubt  grew 

wild : 
"  Will 't  vex  the  love,  which  still  thou 

hast, 

To  know  that  I  have  peace  at  last  1 " 
And  from  my  dream  the  vision  passed, 
And  still,  in  passing,  smiled. 


LOVE  RETURNED. 


HE  was  a  boy  when  first  we  met ; 

His  eyes  were  mixed  of  dew  and  fire, 
And  on  his  candid  brow  was  set 

The  sweetness  of  a  chaste  desire  . 
But  in  his  veins  the  pulses  beat 

Of  passion,  waiting  for  its  wing, 
As  ardent  veins  of  summer  heat 

Throb    through    the    innocence    of 
spring. 


As  manhood  came,  his  stature  grew, 

And  fiercer  burned  his  restless  eyes, 
Until  I  trembled,  as  he  drew 

From  wedded  hearts  their  young  dis 
guise. 
Like  wind-fed  flame  his  ardor  rose, 

And  brought,  like   flame,  a  stormy 

rain : 
In  tumult,  sweeter  than  repose, 

He  tossed  the  souls  of  joy  and  pain 


So  many  years  of  absence  change  ! 

I  knew  him  not  when  he  returned : 
His  step  was  slow,  his  brow  was  strange, 

His  quiet  eye  no  longer  burned. 


THE   POET'S   JOURNAL. 


When  at  my  heart  I  heard  his  knock, 
No  voice  within  his  right  confessed  : 

1  could  not  venture  to  unlock 
Its  chambers  to  an  alien  guest. 


Then,  at  the  threshold,  spent  and  worn 

With  fruitless  travel,  down  he  lay  : 
And  I  beheld  the  gleams  of  morn 

On  his  reviving  beauty  play. 
I  knelt,  and  kissed  his  holy  lips, 

I  washed  his  feet  with  pious  care  ; 
And  from  my  life  the  long  eclipse 

Drew  off,  and  left  his  sunshine  there. 


He  burns  no  more  with  youthful  fire  ; 

He  melts  no  more  in  foolish  tears  ; 
Serene  and  sweet,  his  eyes  inspire 

The  steady  faith  of  balanced  years. 
His  folded  wings  no  longer  thrill, 

But  in  some  peaceful  flight  of  prayer : 
He  nestles  in  my  heart  so  still, 

I  scarcely  feel  his  presence  there. 


0  Love,  that  stern  probation  o'er, 

Thy  calmer  blessing  is  secure  ! 
Thy  beauteous  feet  shall  stray  no  more, 

Thy  peace  and  patience  shall  endure  ! 
The  lightest  wind  deflowers  the  rose, 

The  rainbow  with  the  sun  departs, 
But  thou  art  centred  in  repose, 

And  rooted  in  my  heart  of  hearts  ! 


A  WOMAN. 


SHE  is  a  woman  :  therefore,  I  a  man, 
In  so  much  as  I  love  her.     Could  I 

more, 
Then  I  were  more  a  man.     Our  natures 

ran 
Together,  brimming  full,  not  flooding 

o'er 

The  banks  7*  life,  and  evermore  will  run 
In  one  full  stream  until  our  days  are 

done. 

ii. 

She  is  a  woman,  but  of  spirit  brave 
To  bear  the  loss  of  girlhood's  giddy 
dreams ; 


The  regal  mistress,  not  the  3rielding  slave 
Of    her  ideal,   spurning  that  which 

seems 
For  that  which  is,  and,  as  her  fancies 

fall, 
Smiling :  the  truth  of  love  outweighs 

them  all. 


She    looks    through  life,   and  with  a 

balance  just 
Weighs  men  and  things,  beholding  as 

they  are 
The  lives   of  others :   in  the   common 

dust 
She  finds  the  fragments  of  the  ruined 

star: 
Proud,  with  a  pride  all  feminine  and 

sweet, 
No  path  can  soil  the  whiteness  of  her 

feet. 


The  steady  candor  of  her  gentle  eyes 
Strikes   dead   deceit,    laughs   vanity 

away; 

She  hath  no  room  for  petty  jealousies, 
Where  Faith  and  Love  divide  their 

tender  sway. 

Of  either  sex  she  owns  the  nobler  part : 
Man's  honest  brow  and  woman's  faithful 
heart. 


She  is  a  woman,  who,  if  Love  were  guide, 
Would  climb  to  power,  or  in  obscure 
content 

Sit  down:  accepting  fate  with  change 
less  pride  — 

A  reed  in  calm,  in  storm  a  staff  un 
bent : 

No  pretty  plaything,  ignorant  of  life, 

But  Man's  true  mother,  and  his  equal 
wife. 


THE  COUNT   OF   GLEICHEN. 

I  READ  that  story  of  the  Saxon  knight, 
Who,  leaving  spouse  and  feudal  for 
tress,  made 
The  Cross  of  Christ  his  guerdon  in  the 

fight, 
And  joined  the  last  Crusade . 

Whom,  in  the  chase  on  Damietta's  sands 
Estrayed,  the   Saracens   in    ambush 
caught, 


POSSESSION. 


27 


And  unto  Cairo,  to  the  Soldan's  hands, 
A  wretched  captive  brought : 

Whom  then  the  Soldan's  child,  a  damsel 

brave, 
Saw,  pitied,  comforted,  and  made  him 

free. 
And  with  him   flew,  herself   a  willing 

slave 
In  Love's  captivity. 

I  read  how  he  to  bless  her  love  was 
fain, 

To  whom  his  renovated  life  he  owed, 
Yet  with  a  pang  the  towers  beheld  again 

Where  still  his  wife  abode  : 

The  wife  whom  first  he  loved :  would 

she  not  scorn 
The  second  bride  he  could  not  choose 

but  wed, 

The  second  mother  to  his  children,  born 
In  her  divided  bed  ? 

Lo  !  at  his  castle's  foot  the  noble  dame 
With   tears   of  blessing,  holy,   unde- 

filed 
By  human  pain,  received  him  when  he 

came, 
And  kissed  the  Soldan's  child  ! 

My  tears  were  on  the  pages  as  I  read 
The  touching  close  :  I  made  the  story 

mine, 
Within  whose   heart,  long  plighted  to 

the  dead, 
Love  built  his  living  shrine. 

I  too  had  dared,  a  captive  in  the  land, 
To  pay  with  love  the  love  that  broke 

my  chain : 
Would    she,  who    waited,   stretch  the 

pardoning  hand, 
When  I  returned  again  ? 

Would  she,  my  freedom  and  my  bliss  to 

know, 

With  my  disloyalty  be  reconciled, 
And  from  her  bower  in  Eden  look  be 
low, 
And  bless  the  Soldan's  child  1 

For  she  is  lost :  but  she,  the  later  bride, 
Who  came  my  ruined  fortune  to  re 
store, 
Back  from  the  desert  wanders  at  my 

side, 
And  leads  me  home  once  more. 


If  human  love,  she  sighs,  could  move  a 
wife 

The  holiest  sacrifice  of  love  to  make, 
Then  the  transfigured  angel  of  thy  life 

Is  happier  for  thy  sake  • 


BEFORE  THE  BEIDAL. 

Now  the  night  is  overpast, 
And  the  mist  is  cleared  away : 

On  my  barren  life  at  last 
Breaks  the  bright,  reluctant  day. 

Day  of  payment  for  the  wrong 
1  was  doomed  so  long  to  bear ; 

Day  of  promi.se,  day  of  song, 
Day  that  makes  the  future  fair ! 

Let  me  wake  to  bliss  alone : 

Let  me  bury  every  fear : 
What  I  prayed  for,  is  my  own ; 

What  was  distant,  now  is  near. 

For  the  happy  hour  that  waits 
No  reproachful  shade  shall  bring, 

And  I  hear  forgiving  Fates 
In  the  happy  bells  that  ring. 

Leave  the  song  that  now  is  mute, 
For  the  sweeter  song  begun  : 

Leave  the  blossom  for  the  fruit, 
And  the  rainbow  for  the  sun  ! 


POSSESSION. 


"  IT  was  our  wedding-day 

A  month  ago,"  dear  heart,  I  hear  you 

say. 
If  months,  or  years,  or  ages  since  have 

passed, 
I  know  not :  I  have  ceased  to  question 

Time. 
I  only  know  that  once  there  pealed  a 

chime 
Of  joyous  bells,  and  then  I  held  you 

"  fast, 
And  all  stood  back,  and  none  my  right 

denied, 
And  forth  we  walked :    the  world  was 

free  and  wide 

Before  us.     Since  that  day 
I  count  my  life :    the  Past  is  washed 

away. 


28 


THE  POET  S   JOURNAL. 


It  was  no  dream,  that  vow : 

It  was  the  voice  that  woke  me  from  a 
dream,  — 

A  happy  dream,  I  think ;  but  I  am 
waking  now, 

And  drink  the  splendor  of  a  sun  su 
preme 

That  turns  the  mist  of  former  tears  to 
gold. 

Within  these  arms  I  hold 

The  fleeting  promise,  chased  so  long  in 
vain : 

Ah,  weary  bird !  thou  wilt  not  fly  again : 

Thy  wings  are  clipped,  thou  canst  no 
more  depart, — 

Thy  nest  is  builded  in  my  heart ! 


I  was  the  crescent ;  thou 
The  silver  phantom  of  the  perfect  sphere, 
Held  in  its  bosom  :  in  one  glory  now 
Our   lives    united    shine,  and   many  a 

year  — 

Not  the  sweet  moon  of  bridal  only  —  we 
One  lustre,  ever  at  the  full,  shall  be  : 
One  pure  and  rounded  light,  one  planet 

whole, 

One  life  developed,  one  completed  soul ! 
For  I  in  thee,  and  thou  in  me, 
Unite  our  cloven  halves  of  destiny. 


God  knew  His  chosen  time  : 

He  bade  me  slowly  ripen  to  my  prime, 

And   from    my    boughs  withhtild    the 

promised  fruit, 

Till  storm  and  sun  gave  vigor  to  the  root. 
Secure,  0  Love  !  secure 
Thy  blessing  is :   I  have  thee  day  and 

night : 
Thou  art  become  my  blood,  mv  life,  my 

light : 
God's  mercy  thou,  and  therefore  shalt 

endure ! 


UNDER  THE  MOON. 

i. 

FROM  you  and  home  I  sleep  afar, 
Under  the  light  of  a  lonely  star, 
Under  the  moon  that  marvels  why 
Away  from  you  and  home  I  lie. 


Ah !  love  no  language  can  declare, 
The  hovering  warmth,  the  tender  care, 
The  yielding,  sweet,  invisible  air 
That  clasps  your  bosom,  and  fans  your 

cheek 
With  the    breath   of   words  I  cannot 

speak,  — 

Such   love   I  give,   such    warmth    im 
part: 
The  fragrance  of  a  blossomed  heart. 


The  moon  looks  in  upon  my  bed, 
Her  yearning  glory  rays  my  head, 
And  round  me  clings,  a  lonely  light, 
The  aureole  of  the  winter  night ; 
But  in  my  heart  a  gentle  pain, 
A  balmier  splendor  in  my  brain, 
Lead  me  beyond  the  frosty  plane, — 
Lead  me  afar,  to  mellower  skies, 
Where  under  the  moon  a  palace  lies ; 
Where  under  the  moon  our  bed  is  made, 
Half  in  splendor  and  half  in  shade. 


The  marble  flags  of  the  corridor 
Through  open  windows  meet  the  floor, 
And  Moorish  arches  in  darkness  rise 
Against  the  gleam  of  the  silver  skies  : 
Beyond,  in  flakes  of  starry  light, 
A  fountain  prattles  to  the  night, 
And  dusky  cypresses,  withdrawn 
In  silent  conclave,  stud  the  lawn  ; 
While  mystic  woodlands,  more  remote, 
In  seas  of  airy  silver  float, 
So  hung  in  heaven,  the  stars  that  set 
Seem  glossy  leaves  the  dew  has  wet 
On  topmost  boughs,  and  sparkling  yet. 


In  from  the  terraced  garden  blows 

The  spicy  soul  of  the  tuberose, 

As  if  't  were  the  odor  of  strains  that 

pour 
From  the  nightingale's  throat  as  never 

before ; 
For   he   sings    not   now   of   wounding 

thorn, 
He   sings   as  the    lark   in  the  golden 

morn,  — 

A  song  of  joy,  a  song  of  bliss, 
Passionate  notes  that  clasp  and  kiss, 
Perfect  peace  and  perfect  pride, 
Love  rewarded  and  satisfied, 
For  I  see  you,  darling,  at  my  side. 


THE  FATHER. 


29 


I  see  you,  darling,  at  my  side  : 
I  clasp  you  closer,  in  sacred  pride. 
I  shut  my  eyes,  my  senses  fail, 
Becalmed  by  Night's  ambrosial  gale. 
Softer  than  dews  the  plauets  weep, 
Descends  a  sweeter  peace  than  sleep  ; 
All  wandering  sounds  and  motions  die 
In  the  silent  glory  of  the  sky ; 
But,  as  the  moon  goes  down  the  West, 
Your  heart,  against  my  happy  breast, 
Says  in  its  beating  :  Love  is  Rest. 


THE  MYSTIC  SUMMER. 

'T  is  not  the  dropping  of  the  flower, 
The  blush  of  fruit  upon  the  tree, 

Though  summer  ripens,  hour  by  hour, 
The  garden's  sweet  maternity  : 

'T  is  not  that  birds  have  ceased  to  build. 
And   wait    their  brood    with   tender 
care; 

That  corn  is  golden  in  the  field, 
And  clover  balm  is  in  the  air  ;  — 

Not  these  the  season's  splendor  bring, 
And  crowd  with  life  the  happy  year, 

Nor  yet,  where  yonder  fountains  sing, 
The  blaze  of  sunshine,  hot  and  clear. 

In  thy  full  womb,  0  Summer !   lies 
A  secret  hope,  a  joy  unsung, 

Held  in  the  hush  of  these  calm  skies, 
And  trembling  on  the  forest's  tongue. 

The  lands  of  harvest  throb  anew 
In  shining  pulses,  far  away  ; 

The  Night  distils  a  dearer  dew, 
And  sweeter  eyelids  has  the  Day. 

And  not  in  vain  the  peony  burns 
In  bursting  globes,  her  crimson  fire, 

Her  incense-dropping  ivory  urns 
The  lily  lifts  in  many  a  spire  : 

And  not  in  vain  the  tulips  clash 
In  revelry  the  cups  they  hold 

Of  fiery  wine,  until  they  dash 
With  ruby  streaks  the  splendid  gold ! 

Bend  down  your  roots  the  mystic  charm 
That    warms    and    flushes  all  your 
flowers, 

And  with  the  summer's  touch  disarm 
The  thraldom  of  the  under  powers, 


Until,  in  caverns,  buried  deep, 

Strange    fragrance    reach    the    dia 
mond's  home, 

And  murmurs  of  the  garden  sweep 
The  houses  of  the  frighted  gnome  J 

For,  piercing  through  their    black  re 
pose, 

And  shooting  up  beyond  the  sun, 
I  see  that  Tree  of  Life,  which  rose 

Before  the  eyes  of  Solomon : 

Its  boughs,  that,  in  the  light  of  God, 
Their  bright,  innumerous  leaves  dis 
play,  — 

Whose  hum  of  life  is  borne  abroad 
By  winds  that  shake  the  dead  away. 

And,  trembling  on  a  branch  afar, 
The  topmost  nursling  of  the  skies, 

I  see  my  bud,  the  fairest  star 
The  ever  dawned  for  watching  eyes. 

Unnoticed  on  the  boundless  tree, 
Its  fragrant  promise  fills  the  air ; 

Its  little  bell  expands,  for  me, 
A  tent  of  silver,  lily-fair. 

All  life  to  that  one  centre  tends ; 

All  joy  and  beauty  thence  outflow ; 
Her  sweetest  gifts  the  summer  spends, 

To  teach  that  sweeter  bud  to  blow. 

So,  compassed  by  the  vision's  gleam, 
In  trembling  hope,  from  day  to  day, 

As  in  some  bright,  bewildering  dream, 
The  mystic  summer  wanes  away. 


THE  FATHER. 

THE  fateful  hour,   when  Death  stood 

by 
And  stretched  his  threatening  hand  in 

vain, 
Is  over  now,  and  Life's  first  cry 

Speaks  feeble    triumph  through  ita 
pain. 

But  yesterday,  and  thee  the  Earth 
Inscribed  not  en  her  mighty  scroll : 

To-day  she  opes  the  gate  of  birth, 
And  gives  the  spheres  another  soul. 

But  yesterday,  no  fruit  from  me 

The  rising  winds  of  Time  had  hurled 

To-day,  a  father,  —  can  it  be 
A  child  of  mine  is  in  the  world  ? 


20 


THE  POET S  JOURNAL. 


I  look  upon  the  little  frame, 
As  helpless  on  my  arm  it  lies  : 

Thou  giv'st  me,  child,  a  father's  name, 
God's  earliest  name  in  Paradise. 

Like  Him,  creator  too  I  stand  : 

His  Power  and  Mystery  seem  more 
near  ; 

Thon  giv'st  me  honor  iii  the  land, 
And  giv'st  my  life  duration  here. 

But  love,  to-day,  is  more  than  pride ; 

Love  sees  his  star  of  triumph  shine, 
For  Life  nor  Death  can  now  divide 

The   souls    that  wedded   breathe   in 
thine  : 

Mine  and  thy  mother's,  whence  arose 
The  copy  of  my  face  in  thee  ; 

And  as  thine  eyelids  first  unclose, 
My  own  young  eyes  look  up  to  me. 

Look  on  me,  child,  once  more,  once  more, 
Even  with  those  weak,  unconscious 

eyes; 

Stretch  the  small  hands  that  help  im 
plore  ; 
Salute  me  with  thy  wailing  cries  ! 

This  is  the  blessing  and  the  prayer 
A  father's  sacred  place*  demands  : 

Ordain  me,  darling,  for  thy  care, 
And  lead  me  with  thy  helpless  hands  ! 


THE  MOTHER. 

PALER,  and  yet  a  thousand  times  more 

fair 
Than  in  thy  girlhood's  freshest  bloom, 

art  thou : 

0k  softer  sun-flush  tints  thy  golden  hair, 
A  sweeter  grace   adorns  thy  gentle 
brow. 


Lips  that  shall  call  thee  'mother!  "  at 
thy  breast 

Feed  the  young  life,  wherein  thy  nat 
ure  feels 

Its   dear  fulfilment :   little   hands   are 

pressed 

On   the  white  fountain   Love  alone 
unseals. 

Look  down,  and  let  Life's  tender  day 
break  throw 
A   second   radiance  on   thy  ripened 

hour  : 
Retrace   thine    own  forgotten    advent 

so, 

And  in  the  bud  behold  thy  perfect 
flower. 

Nay,  question  not :   whatever  lies   be 
yond 
God  will  dispose.     Sit  thus,  Madonna 

mine, 
For  thou   art   haloed   with  a  love   as 

fond 

As  Jewish  Mary  gave  the  Child  Di 
vine. 

I  lay  my  own  proud  title  at  thy  feet ; 
Thine  the  first,  holiest  right  to  love 

shalt  be : 
Though  in  his  heart  our  wedded  pulses 

beat, 

His  sweetest  life  our  darling  draws 
from  thee. 

The  father  in  his  child   beholds   this 

truth, 
His  perfect  manhood  has  assumed  its 

reign : 
Thou  wear'st  anew  the   roses  of  thy 

youth,  — 

The   mother   in   her  child   is   born 
ajrain. 


Thus  came  the  Poet's  Journal  to  an  end. 
His  heart's  completed  music  ceased  to  flow 
From  Ernest's  lips :  the  tale  I  wished  to  know 
Was  wholly  mine.     "  I  am  content,  dear  friend," 
I  said  :  "  to  me  no  voice  can  be  obscure 
Wherein  your  nature  speaks  :  the  chords  I  hear, 
Too  far  and  frail  to  strike  a  stranger's  ear." 
With  that,  I  bowed  to  Edith's  forehead  pure, 
And  kissed  her  with  a  brother's  blameless  kiss: 
"  To  you  the  fortune  of  these  days  I  owe, 
My  other  Ernest,  like  him  most  in  this, 
That  you  can  hear  the  cries  of  ancient  woe 


THIRD   EVENING.  31 

With  holy  pity  free  from  any  blame 
Of  jealous  love,  and  find  your  highest  bliss 
To  know,  through  you  his  life's  fulfilment  came." 
"And  through  him,  mine,"  the  woman's  heart  replied; 
.For  Love's  humility  is  Love's  true  pride. 

*"  These  are  yonr  sweetest  poems,  and  your  best," 
'W)  him  I  said.     "  I  know  not,"  answered  he, 
They  are  my  truest.     I  have  ceased  to  be 
The  ambitious  knight  of  Song,  that  shook  his  crest 
In  public  tilts  :  the  sober  hermit  I, 
Whose  evening  songs  but  few  approach  to  hear,  — 
Who,  if  those  few  should  cease  to  lend  an  ear, 
Would  sing  them  to  the  forest  and  the  sky 
Contented  :  singing  for  myself  alone. 
No  fear  that  any  poet  dies  unknown, 
Whose  songs  are  written  in  the  hearts  that  know 
And  love  him,  though  their  partial  verdict  show 
The  tenderness  that  moves  the  critic's  blame. 
Those  few  have  power  to  lift  his  name  above 
Forgetfulness,  to  grant  that  noblest  fame 
Which  sets  its  trumpet  to  the  lips  of  Love ! " 

'Nay,  then,"  said  I,  "you  are  already  crowned. 

If  your  ambition  in  the  loving  pride 

Of  us,  your  friends,  is  cheaply  satisfied, 

We  are  those  trumpets :  do  you  hear  them  sound  ?" 

And  Edith  smilingly  together  wound 

Light  stems  of  ivy  to  a  garland  fair, 

And  pressed  it  archly  on  her  husband's  hair ; 

But  he,  with  earnest  voice,  though  in  his  eyes 

A  happy  laughter  shone,  protesting,  said : 
'Respect,  dear  friends,  the  Muse's  sanctities, 

Nor  mock,  with  wreaths  upon  a  living  head, 

The  holy  laurels  of  the  deathless  Dead. 

Crown  Love,  crown  Truth  when  first  her  brow  appears, 

And  crown  the  Hero  when  his  deeds  are  done : 

The  Poet's  leaves  are  gathered  one  by  one, 

In  the  slow  process  of  the  doubtful  years. 

Who  seeks  too  eagerly,  he  shall  not  find  : 

Who,  seeking  not,  pursues  with  single  mind 

Art's  lofty  aim,  to  him  will  she  accord, 

At  her  appointed  time,  the  sure  reward." 

The  tall  clock,  standing  sentry  in  the  hall, 
Struck  midnight :  on  the  panes  no  longer  beat 
The  weary  storm :  the  wind  began  to  fall, 
And  through  the  breaking  darkness  glimmered,  sweet 
With  tender  stars,  the  flying  gleams  of  sky. 
*  Come,  Edith,  lend  your  voice  to  crown  the  night, 
And  give  the  new  day  sunny  break,"  said  I : 
She  listening  first  in  self-deceiving  plight 
Of  young  maternal  trouble,  for  a  cry 
From  Arthur's  crib,  sat  down  in  happy  calm, 
And  sang  to  Ernest's  heart  his  own  thanksgiving  psalm. 

Thou  wlio  sendest  sun  and  rain, 
Thou  who  spendcst  bliss  and  pain, 


THE   POET'S  JOURNAL. 

Good  with  bounteous  hand  bestowing, 
Evil  for  Thy  will  allowing,  — 
Though  Thy  ways  we  cannot  see, 
All  is  just  that  comes  from  Thee. 

In  the  peace  of  hearts  at  rest, 
In  the  child  at  mother's  breast, 
In  the  lives  that  now  surround  us, 
In  the  deaths  that  sorely  wound  us, 
Though  we  may  not  understand, 
Father,  we  beheld  Thy  hand  ! 

Hear  the  happy  hymn  we  raise  ; 
Take  the  love  which  is  Thy  praise  ; 
Give  content  in  each  condition  ; 
Bend  our  hearts  in  sweet  submission, 
And  Thy  trusting  children  prove 
Worthy  of  the  Father' t  love  I 


POEMS  OF  THE  ORIENT. 


Da  der  West  war  durchgekostet, 
Hat  er  nun  den  Ost  entmostet. 

KUCKERT. 


PROEM  DEDICATORY. 


AN  EPISTLE  FROM  MOUNT  TMOLUS. 

TO   RICHARD  HENRY    8TODDARD. 
I. 

O  FRIEND,  were  you  but  couched  on  Tmolus'  side, 
In  the  warm  myrtles,  in  the  golden  air 
Of  the  declining  day,  which  half  lays  bare, 

Half  drapes,  the  silent  mountains  and  the  wide 

Embosomed  vale,  that  wanders  to  the  sea ; 
And  the  far  sea,  with  doubtful  specks  of  sail, 

And  farthest  isles,  that  slumber  tranquilly 
Beneath  the,  Ionian  autumn's  violet  veil ;  — 

Were  you  but  with  me,  little  were  the  need 
Of  this  imperfect  artifice  of  rhyme, 
Where  the  strong  Fancy  peals  a  broken  chime 

And  the  ripe  brain  but  sheds  abortive  seed. 

But  I  am  solitary,  and  the  curse, 

Or  blessing,  which  has  clung  to  me  from  birth  — 

The  torment  and  the  ecstasy  of  verse  — 
Comes  up  to  me  from  the  illustrious  earth 

Of  ancient  Tmolus  ;  and  the  very  stones, 

Reverberant,  din  the  mellow  air  with  tones 

Which  the  sweet  air  remembers  ;  and  they  blend 
With  fainter  echoes,  which  the  mountains  fling 

From  far  oracular  caverns  :  so,  my  Friend, 
I  cannot  choose  but  sing  ! 


Unto  mine  eye,  less  plain  the  shepherds  be, 

Tending  their  browsing  goats  amid  the  broom, 
Or  the  slow  camels,  travelling  towards  the  sea, 

Laden  with  bales  from  Baghdad's  gaudy  loom, 
Or  yon  nomadic  Turcomans,  that  go 

Down  from  their  summer  pastures  —  than  the  twain 
Immortals,  who  on  Tmolus'  thymy  top 

Sang,  emulous,  the  rival  strain  ! 
Down  the  charmed  air  did  light  Apollo  drop  ; 
Great  Pan  ascended  from  the  vales  below. 
I  see  them  sitting  in  the  silent  glow  ; 
I  hear  the  alternating  measures  flow 


36  POEMS   OF   THE  ORIENT. 

From  pipe  and  golden  lyre  ;  —  the  melody 

Heard  by  the  Gods  between  their  nectar  bowls, 
Or  when,  from  out  the  chambers  of  the  sea, 

Comes  the  triumphant  Morning,  and  unrolls 
A  pathway  for  the  sun  ;  then,  following  swift, 

The  dffidal  harmonies  of  awful  caves 
Cleft  in  the  hills,  and  forests  that  uplift 

Their  sea-like  boom,  in  answer  to  the  waves, 
With  many  a  lighter  strain,  that  dances  o'er 
The  wedded  reeds,  till  Echo  strives  in  vaiu 

To  follow : 
Hark !  once  more, 
How  floats  the  God's  exultant  strain 
In  answer  to  Apollo  ! 

"  The  wind  in  the  reeds  and  the  rushes, 

The  bees  on  the  bells  of  thyme, 
The  birds  on  the  myrtle  bushes, 
The  cicale  above  in  the  lime, 
And  the  lizards  below  in  the  grass 
Are  as  silent  as  ever  old  Tmolus  was. 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings." 


I  cannot  separate  the  minstrels'  worth ; 
Each  is  alike  transcendent  and  divine. 

What  were  the  Day,  unless  it  lighted  Earth  ? 

And  what  were  Earth,  should  Day  forget  to  shine  ? 

But  were  you  here,  my  Friend,  we  twain  would  build 
Two  altars,  on  the  mountain's  sunward  side  : 
There  Pan  should  o'er  my  sacrifice  preside, 

And  there  Apollo  your  oblation  gild. 

He  is  your  God,  but  mine  is  shaggy  Pan  ; 
Yet,  as  their  music  no  discordance  made, 
So  shall  our  offerings  side  by  side  be  laid, 

And  the  same  wind  the  rival  incense  fan. 


You  strain  your  ear  to  catch  the  harmonies 

That  in  some  finer  region  have  their  birth ; 
I  turn,  despairing,  from  the  quest  of  these. 

And  seek  to  learn  the  native  tongue  of  Earth. 
In  "  Fancy's  tropic  clime  "  your  castle  stands, 

A  shining  miracle  of  rarest  art ; 
I  pitch  my  tent  upon  the  naked  sands, 
And  the  tall  palm,  that  plumes  the  orient  lands, 

Can  with  its  beauty  satisfy  my  heart. 
You,  in  your  starry  trances,  breathe  the  air 

Of  lost  Elysium,  pluck  the  snowy  bells 

Of  lotus  and  Olympian  asphodels, 
And  bid  us  their  diviner  odors  share. 
I  at  the  threshold  of  that  world  have  lain, 

Gazed  on  its  glory,  heard  the  grand  acclaim 

Wherewith  its  trumpets  hail  the  sons  of  Fame, 
And  striven  its  speech  to  master  —  but  in  vain. 


A  P^AN   TO   THE  DAWN. 


37 


And  now  I  turn,  to  find  a  late  content 

In  Nature,  making  mine  her  myriad  shows ; 

Better  contented  with  one  living  rose 
Than  all  the  Gods'  ambrosia ;  sternly  bent 
On  wresting  from  her  hand  the  cup,  whence  flow 

The  flavors  of  her  ruddiest  life  —  the  change 

Of  climes  and  races  —  the  unshackled  range 
Of  all  experience ;  —  that  my  songs  may  show 
The  warm  red  blood  that  beats  in  hearts  of  men, 
And  those  who  read  them  in  the  festering  den 

Of  cities,  may  behold  the  open  sky, 
And  hear  the  rhythm  of  the  winds  that  blow, 

Instinct  with  Freedom.     Blame  me  not,  that  I 
Find  in  the  forms  of  Earth  a  deeper  joy 
Than  in  the  dreams  which  lured  me  as  a  boy, 
And  leave  the  Heavens,  where  you  are  wandering  still 

With  bright  Apollo,  to  converse  with  Pan ; 

For,  though  full  soon  our  courses  separate  ran, 
We,  like  the  Gods,  can  meet  on  Tmolus'  hill. 


There  is  no  jealous  rivalry  in  Song  : 

I  see  your  altar  on  the  hill-top  shine, 

And  mine  is  built  in  shadows  of  the  Pine, 
Yet  the  same  worships  unto  each  belong. 
Different  the  Gods,  yet  one  the  sacred  awe 

Their  presence  brings  us,  one  the  reverent  heart 
Wherewith  we  honor  the  immortal  law 

Of  that  high  inspiration,  which  is  Art. 
Take,  therefore,  Friend !  these  Voices  of  the  Earth, 

The  rhythmic  records  of  my  life's  career, 
Humble,  perhaps,  yet  wanting  not  the  worth 

Of  Truth,  and  to  the  heart  of  Nature  near. 
Take  them,  and  your  acceptance,  in  the  dearth 

Of  the  world's  tardy  praise,  shall  make  them  dear. 


A  P^EAN  TO  THE  DAWN. 


THE  dusky  sky  fades  into  blue, 

And  bluer  waters  bind  us ; 
The  stars  are  glimmering  faint  and  few, 

The  night  is  left  behind  us  ! 
Turn  not  where  sinks  the  sullen  dark 

Before  the  signs  of  warning, 
But  crowd  the  canvas  on  our  bark 

And  sail  to  meet  the  morning. 
Rejoice !  rejoice  !  the  hues  that  fill 

The  orient,  flush  and  lighten ; 
And  over  the  blue  Ionian  hill 

The  Dawn  begins  to  brighten  ! 


We  leave  the  Night,  that  weighed  so  long 
Upon  the  soul's  endeavor, 


For  Morning,  on  these  hills  of  Song, 

Has  made  her  home  forever. 
Hark  to  the  sound  of  trump  and  lyre, 

In  the  olive-groves  before  us, 
And  the  rhythmic  beat,  the  pulse  of  fire 

Throbs  in  the  full-voice  chorus ! 
More  than  Memnonian  grandeur  speaks 

In  the  triumph  of  the  paean, 
And  all  the  glory  of  the  Greeks 

Breathes  o'er  the  old  JEgean. 


Here  shall  the  ancient  Dawn  return, 

That  lit  the  earliest  poet, 
Whose  very  ashes  in  his  urn 

Would  radiate  glory  through  it,  — 
The  dawn  of  Life,  when  Life  was  Song, 

And  Song  the  life  of  Nature, 
And  the  Singer  stood  amid  the  throng,-- 

A  God  in  every  feature ! 


38 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT. 


When  Love  was  free,  and  free  as  air 
The  utterance  of  Passion, 

And  the  heart  in  every  fold  lay  bare, 
Nor  shamed  its  true  expression. 


Then  perfect  limb  and  perfect  face 

Surpassed  our  best  ideal ; 
Unconscious  Nature's  law  was  grace,  — 

The  Beautiful  was  real. 
For  men  acknowledged  true  desires, 

And  light  as  garlands  wore  them  ; 
They  were  begot  by  vigorous  sires, 

And  noble  mothers  bore  them. 
Oh,  when  the  shapes  of  Art  they  planned 

Were  .living  forms  of  passion, 
Impulse  and  Deed  went  hand  iu  hand, 

And  Life  was  more  than  Fashion ! 


The  seeds  of  Song  they  scattered  first 

Flower  in  all  later  pages ; 
Their    forms    have    woke  the  Artist's 
thirst 

Through  the  succeeding  ages  : 
But  I  will  seek  the  fountain-head 

Whence  flowed  their  inspiration, 
And  lead  the  unshackled  life  they  led, 

Accordant  with  Creation. 
The    World's    false   life,   that   follows 
still, 

Has  ceased  its  chain  to  tighten, 
And  over  the  blue  Ionian  hill 

I  see  the  sunrise  brighten ! 


THE  POET  IN  THE  EAST. 

THE  Poet  came  to  the  Land  of  the 

MEast, 

When  spring  was  in  the  air : 
The  Earth  was  dressed  for  a  wedding 

feast, 

So  young  she  seemed,  and  fair ; 
And  the  Poet  knew  the  Land  of  the 

East,  — 
His  soul  was  native  there. 

All  things  to  him  were  the  visible  forms 
Of  early  and  precious  dreams,  — 

Familiar  visions  that  mocked  his  quest 
Beside  the  Western  streams, 

Or  gleamed  in  the  gold  of  the  clouds, 

unrolled 
In  the  sunset's  dying  beams. 


He  looked  above  in  the  cloudless  calm, 
And  the  Sun  sat  on  his  throne  ; 

The  breath  of  gardens,  deep  in  balm, 
Was  all  about  him  blown, 

And  a  brother  to  him  was  the  princely 

Palm, 
For  he  cannot  live  alone. 

His  feet  went  forth  on  the  myrtled  hills, 
And  the  flowers  their  welcome  shed  ; 

The  meads  of  milk-white  asphodel 
They  knew  the  Poet's  tread, 

And  far  and  wide,  in  a  scarlet  tide, 
The  poppy's  bonfire  spread. 

And,  half  in  shade  and  half  in  sun, 

The  Rose  sat  in  her  bower, 
With  a  passionate  thrill  in  her  crimson 
heart  — 

She  had  waited  for  the  hour !  „ 

And,  like  a  bride's,  the  Poet  kissed 

The  lips  of  the  glorious  flower. 

Then  the  Nightingale,  who  sat  above 
In  the  boughs  of  the  citron-tree, 

Sang  :  We  are  no  rivals,  brother  mine, 
Except  in  minstrelsy  ; 

For  the  rose  you  kissed  with  the  kiss  of 

love, 
She  is  faithful  still  to  me. 

And  further  sang  the  Nightingale : 

Your  bower  not  distant  lies. 
I  heard  the  sound  of  a  Persian  lute 

From  the  jasmined  window  rise, 
And,  twin-bright  stars,  through  the  lat 
tice-bars, 

I  saw  the  Sultana's  eyes. 

The  Poet  said:  I  will  here  abide, 
In  the  Sun's  unclouded  door ; 

Here  are  the  wells  of  all  delight 
On  the  lost  Arcadian  shore : 

Here  is  the  light  on  sea  and  land, 
And  the  dream  deceives  no  more. 

THE  TEMPTATION  OF  HASSAN 
BEN  KHALED. 


HASSAN  BEN  KHALED,  singing  in  the 

streets 

Of  Cairo,  sang  these  verses  at  my  door : 
"  Blessed  is  he,  who  God  and  Prophet 

greets 
Each  morn  with  prayer ;  but  he  is  blert 

much  more 


THE   TEMPTATION   OF   HASSAN   BEN   KHALED. 


39 


Whose  conduct  is  his  prayer's  inter 
preter. 

Sweeter  than  musk,  and  pleasanter  than 
myrrh, 

Richer  than  rubies,  shall  his  portion  be, 

When  God  bids  Azrael,  'Bring  him 
unto  me !' 

But  woe  to  him  whose  life  casts  dirt 
upon 

The  Prophet's  word  !  When  all  his 
days  are  done, 

Him  shall  the  Evil  Angel  trample  down 

Out  of  the  sight  of  God."  Thus,  with 
a  frown 

Of  the  severest  virtue,  Hassan  sang 

Unto  the  people,  till  the  markets  rang. 


But  two  days  after  this,  he  came  again 
And  sang,  and  I  remarked  an  altered 

strain. 
Before  my  shop  he  stood,  with  forehead 

bent 
Like   one   whose   sin   hath   made   him 

penitent,  — 
In  whom  the  pride,  that  like  a  stately 

reed 

Lifted  his  head,  is  broken.     "Blest  in 
deed," 
(These  were   his  words,)  "is   he  who 

never  fell, 
But   blest    much  more,  who  from  the 

verge  of  Hell 

Climbs  up  to  Paradise  :  for  Sin  is  sweet ; 
Strong  is  Temptation ;  willing  are  the 

feet 
That    follow    Pleasure,   manifold    her 

snares, 
And    pitfalls    lurk    beneath  our  very 

prayers : 

Yet   God,   the   Clement,  the   Compas 
sionate, 

In  pity  of  our  weakness  keeps  the  gate 
Of  Pardon  open,  scorning  not  to  wait 
Till  the  last  moment,  when  His  mercy 

fliugs 
Splendor  from    the   shade   of  Azrael's 

wings."          • 

"  Wherefore,  O  Poet!  "  I  to  Hassan  said, 
"  This   altered    measure  1     Wherefore 

hang  your  head, 
0   Hassan  !  whom  the  pride  of  virtue 

gives 
The  right  to  face  the  holiest  man  that 

lives  1 
Enter,  I  pray  thee  :  this  poor  house  will 

be 


Honored  henceforth,  if  it  may  shelter 

thee." 

Hassan  Ben  Khaled  lifted  up  his  eyes 
To  mine,  a  moment :  then,  in  cheerful 

guise, 
He  passed  my  threshold  with  unslip- 

pered  feet. 


I  led  him  from  the  noises  of  the  street 
To  the  cool  inner  chambers,  where  my 

slave 
Poured  out  the  pitcher's  rosy-scented 

wave 

Over  his  hands,  and  laid  upon  his  knee 
The  napkin,  silver-fringed  :  and  when 

the  pipe 

Exhaled  a  grateful  odor  from  the  ripe 
Latakian  leaves,  said  Hassan  unto  me : 
"  Listen,  O  Man  !  no  man  can  truly  say 
That  he  hath  wisdom.     What  I  sang 

to-day 

Was  not  less  truth  than  what  I  sang  be 
fore, 
But  to  Truth's  house  there  is  a  single 

door, 

Which  is  Experience.     He  teaches  best, 
Who  feels  the  hearts  of  all  men  in  his 

breast, 
And  knows  their  strength  or  weakness 

through  his  own. 
The  holy  pride,  that  never  was  o'er- 

thrown, 
Was  never  tempted,  and  its  words  of 

blame 

Reach  but  the  dull  ears  of  the  multi 
tude  : 

The  admonitions,  fruitful  unto  good, 
Come  from  the  voice  of  him  who  con 
quers  shame." 


"  Give  me,  0  Poet !  (if  thy  friend  may 

be 
Worthy  such  confidence,)  "  I  said,  "  the 

key 
Unto  thy  words,  that  I  may  share  with 

thee 
Thine  added  wisdom."   Hassan's  kiudly 

eye 

Before   his   lips   unclosed,  spake  will 
ingly, 
And  he  began :  "  But  two  days  since,  I 

went 
Singing  what  thou  didst  hear,  with  soo. 

intent 


40 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT. 


On   my  own  virtue,  all    the    markets 

through ; 
And  when  about  the  time  of  prayer,  I 

drew 

Near  the  Gate  of  Victory,  behold  ! 
There    came    a    man,   whose    turban 

fringed  with  gold 

And  golden  cimeter,  bespake  his  wealth : 
'  May  God  prolong  thy  days,  0  Hassan  ! 

Health 
And  Fortune  be  thy  wisdom's  aids ! ' 

he  cried ; 

'  Come  to  my  garden  by  the  river's  side, 
Where  other  poets  wait  thee.    Be  my 

guest, 
For  even  the  Prophets  had  their  times 

of  rest, 

And  Rest,  that  strengthens  unto  virtu 
ous  deeds, 
Is  one  with  Prayer.'  Two  royal-blooded 

steeds, 
Held  by  his  grooms,  were  waiting  at 

the  gate, 

And  though  I  shrank  from  such  un 
wonted  state 
The  master's  words  were  manna  to  my 

pride, 
And,  mounting  straightway,  forth  we 

twain  did  ride 
Unto  the  garden  by  the  river's  side. 


"Never   til]    then    had   I   beheld   such 

bloom. 

The  west-wind  sent  its  heralds  of  per 
fume 

To  bid  us  welcome,  midway  on  the  road. 
Full  in  the  sun  the  marble  portal  glowed 
Like  silver,  but  within  the  garden  wall 
No  ray  of  sunshine  found  a  place  to 

tall, 
So  thick  the  crowning  foliage  of  the 

trees, 
Roofing  the  walks  with   twilight;  and 

the  air 
Under  their  tops  was  greener  than  the 

seas, 
And   cool    as   they.     The  forms    that 

wandered  there 

Resembled  those  who  populate  the  floor 
Of  Ocean,  and  the  royal  lineage  own 
That   gave  a   Princess    unto    Persia's 

throne. 
All  fruits  the  trees  of  this  fair  garden 

bore, 
Whose     balmy    fragrance    lured    the 

tongue  to  taste 


Their  flavors:  there  bananas  flung  to 
waste 

Their  golden  flagons  with  thick  honey 
filled ; 

From  splintered  cups  the  ripe  pome 
granates  spilled 

A  shower  of  rubies  ;  oranges  that  glow 

Like  globes  of  fire,  enclosed  a  heart  oi 
snow 

Which  thawed  not  in  their  flame ;  lika 
balls  of  gold 

The  peaches  seemed,  that  had  in  blood 
been  rolled ; 

Pure  saffron  mixed  with  clearest  amber 
stained 

The  apricots ;  bunches  of  amethyst 

And  sapphire  seemed  the  grapes,  so 
newly  kissed 

That  still  the  mist  of  Beauty's  breath 
remained ; 

And  where  the  lotus  slowly  swung  in 
air 

Her  snowy-bosomed  chalice,  rosy-veined. 

The  golden  fruit  swung  softly-cradled 
there, 

Even  as  a  bell  upon  the'  bosom  swings 

Of  some  fair  dancer,  —  happy  bell,  that 
sings 

For  joy,  its  golden  tinkle  keeping  time 

To  the  heart's  beating  and  the  cymbal's 
chime  ! 

There  dates  of  agate  and  of  jasper  lay, 

Dropped  from  the  bounty  of  the  preg 
nant  palm, 

And  all  ambrosial  trees,  all  fruits  of 
balm, 

All  flowers  of  precious  odors,  made  the 
day 

Sweet  as  a  morn  of  Paradise.  My 
breath 

Failed  with  the  rapture,  and  with  doubt 
ful  mind 

I  turned  to  where  the  garden's  lord  re 
clined, 

And  asked, '  Was  not  that  gate  the  Gate 
of  Death  ? ' 


"  The  guests  were  ngar  a  fountain.     As 

I  came 
They  rose  in  welcome,  wedding  to  my 

name 

Titles  of  honor,  linked  in  choicest  phrase, 
For  Poets'  ears  are  ever  quick  to  Praise, 
The.  '  Open  Sesame  ! '  whose  magic  art 
Forces  the  guarded  entrance  of  the  heart. 
Young  men  were  they,  whose  manly 

beauty  made 


THE   TEMPTATION    OF    HASSAN   BEN    KHALED. 


41 


Their   words    the    sweeter,    and    their 
speech  displayed 

Knowledge  of  men,  and  of  the  Prophet's 

laws. 

*  Pleasant  our  converse  was,  where  every 
pause  • 

Gave  to  the  fountain  leave  to  sing  its 
song, 

Suggesting  further  speech  ;   until,  ere 
long, 

There  came  a  troop  of  swarthy  slaves, 
who  bore 

Ewers  and  pitchers  all  of  silver  ore, 

Wherein  we  washed  our  hands ;   then, 
tables  placed, 

And  brought  us  meats  of  every  sumptu 
ous  taste 

That  makes  the  blood  rich,  —  pheasants 
stuffed  with  spice  ; 

Young  lambs,  whose   entrails  were  of 
cloves  and  rice ; 

Ducks  bursting  with  pistachio  nuts,  and 
fish 

That  in  a  bed  of  parsley  swam.     Each 
dish, 

Cooked   with   such   art,  seemed    better 
than  the  last, 

And  our  indulgence  in  the  rich  repast 

Brought  on  the  darkness  ere  we  missed 
the  day : 

But  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  fountain's 
spray, 

Or,  pendent  from  the  boughs,  their  col 
ors  told 

What  fruits   unseen,  of  crimson  or  of 
gold, 

Scented  the  gloom.    Then  took  the  gen 
erous  host 

A  basket  rilled  with  roses.     Every  guest 

Cried, '  Give  me  roses  ! '  and  he  thus  ad 
dressed 

His  words  to  all :  'He  who  exalts  them 
most 

In  song,  he  only  shall  the  roses  wear.' 

Then  sang  a  guest :  '  The  rose's  cheeks 
are  fair; 

It  crowns  the  purple  bowl,  and  no  one 
knows 

If  the  rose  colors  it,  or  it  the  rose.' 

And    sang   another :    '  Crimson    is    its 
hue, 

And  on  its  breast  the  morning's  crystal 
dew 

Is  changed  to  rubies.'     Then  a  third  re 
plied  : 

'  It  blushes  in  the  sun's  enamored  sight, 

As   a  young   virgin    on    her   wedding 
Right, 


When  from  her  face  the  bridegroom  lifts 

the  veil.' 

When  all  had  sung  their  songs,  I,  Has 
san,  tried. 
'  The  Rose/  I  sang,  'is  either  red  or 

pale, 
Like  maidens  whom  the  flame  of  passion 

burns, 
And    Love    or   Jealousy    controls,    by 

turns. 

Its  buds  are  lips  preparing  for  a  kiss; 
Its  open  flowers  are  like  the  blush  of 

bli-s 
On  lovers'  cheeks ;  the  thorns  its  armor 

are, 

And  in  its  centre  shines  a  golden  star, 
As  on  a  favorite's  cheek  a  sequin  glows ; 
And  thus  the  garden's  favorite  is  the 

Rose.' 


"  The  master  from  his  open  basket  shook 
The  roses  on  my  head.  The  others  took 
Their  silver  cups,  and  filling  them  wish 

wine, 
Cried,  '  Pledge  our  singing,  Hassan,  as 

we  thine  I" 
But  I  exclaimed,  '  What  is  it  I  have 

heard  ? 
Wine   is   forbidden   by   the    Prophet's 

word  : 
Surely,  O  Friends!  ye  would  not  light- 

lv  break 
The   laws  which    bring    ye   blessing  ?  ' 

Then  they  spake : 
'  0  Poet,  learn  thou  that  the  law  was 

made 
For  men,  and  not  for  poets.    Turn  thine 

eye 

Within,  and  read  the  nature  there  dis 
played  ; 
The  gifts  thou  hast  doth  Allah's  grace 

deny 
To  common  men ;   they  lift  thee  o'er 

the  rules 
The  Prophet  fixed  for  sinners  and  for 

fools. 
The  vine  is  Nature's  poet :   from    hi.- 

bloom 
The   air  goes  reeling,  tipsy  with  per 

fume, 
And  when  the  sun  is  warm  within  his 

blood 
It  mounts   and    sparkles   in  a  crimson 

flood  ; 
Rich  with  dumb  songs  he  speaks  not,  till 

they  iiud 
Interpretation  in  the  Poet's  mind. 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT. 


If  Wine  be  evil,  Song  is  e~  il  too ; 
Then  cease  thy  singing,  lest  it  bring 

thee  sin ; 
But  wouldst  thou  know  the  strains  which 

Hafiz  knew, 
Drink  as  he  drank,  and  thus  the  secret 

win.' 
They  clasped  my  glowing  hands  ;  they 

held  the  bowl 

Up  to  my  lips,  till,  losing  ;ill  control 
Of  the  tierce  thirst,  which  at  my  scru 
ples  laughed, 

I  drained  the  goblet  at  a  single  drauuht. 
It  ran  through  every  limb  like  fluid  fire  : 
'  More,  O  my  Friends  ! '  I  cried,  the  new 

desire 

Raging  within  me  :  '  this  is  life  indeed  ! 
From  blood  like  this  is  coined  the  nobler 

seed 
Whence    poets    are    begotten.      Drink 

again, 

And  give  us  music  of  a  tender  strain, 
Linking  your  inspiration  unto  mine, 
For  music  hovers  on  the  lips  of  Wine ! ' 


"  '  Music  ! '   they  shouted,  echoing   my 
demand, 

And  answered   with   a  beckon   of    his 
baud 

The  gracious  host,  whereat  a  maiden, 
fair 

As  the  last  star  that  leaves  the  morn  ing- 
air, 

Came  down  the  leafy  paths.     Her  veil 
revealed 

The  beauty  of  her  face,  which,  half  con 
cealed 

Behind  its  thin  blue  folds,  showed  like 
the  moon 

Behind  a  cloud  that  will  forsake  it  soon. 

Her  hair  was  braided  darkness,  but  the 
glance 

Of  lightning  eyes  shot  from  her  counte 
nance, 

And  showed  her  neck,  that  like  an  ivory 
tower 

I5oFe  o'er  the  twin  domes  of  her  marble 
breast. 

Were  all  the  beauty  of  this  age  com 
pressed 

Into  one  form,  she  would  transcend  its 
power. 

Her  step  was  lighter  than  the  young 

gazelle's, 

And  as  she  walked,  her  anklet's  golden 
bells 


Tinkled  with  pleasure,  but  wei  e  quickly 

mute 

With  jealousy,  as  from  a  case  she  drew 
With   snowy  hands   the  pieces   of   her* 

lute, 
And  took  her  seat  before  rr.e.     As  it 

grew 
To  perfect  shape,  her  lovely  s.:ms  die 

bent 

Around  the  neck  of  the  sweet   instru 
ment, 

Till  from  her  soft  caresses  it  awoke 
To  consciousness,  and  thus  its  raptur* 

spoke  : 

'  I  was  a  tree  within  an  Indian  vale, 
When  first  I  heard  the  love-sick  night 
ingale 
Declare   his   passion  :    every   leaf  was 

stirred 

With  the  melodious  sorrow  of  the  bird, 
And  when  he  ceased,  the  song  remained 

with  me. 
Men  came  anon,  and  felled  the  harmless 

tree, 
But  from  the  memory  of  the   songs  I 

heard, 

The  spoiler  saved  me  from  the  destiny 
Whereby  my  brethren  perished.     O'er 

the  sea 
I  came,  and  from  its  loud,  tumultuous 

moan 

I  caught  a  soft  and  solemn  undertone ; 
And  when  I  grew  beneath  the  maker's 

hand 
To  what  thou  seest,  he  sang  ( the  whilo 

he  planned) 
The   mirthful    measures  of    a   careless 

heart, 
And   of  my  soul  his   songs  became  a 

part. 
Now  they  have  laid  my  head  upon  a 

breast 

Whiter  than  marble,  I  am  wholly  blest. 
The  fair  hands  smite  me,  and  my  strings 

complain 
With  such  melodious  cries,  they  smite 


Until,   with   passion    and   with   sorrow 

swayed, 
My  torment  moves  the  bosom  of  the 

maid, 
Who  hears  it  speak  her  own.     1  am  the 

voice 

Whereby  the  lovers  languish  or  rejoice  ; 
And  they  caress  me,  knowing  that  my 

strain 
Alone  can  speak  the  language  of  their 

pain.' 


THE   TEMPTATION    OF   HASSAN   BEN   KHALED. 


'lleie  censed  the  fingers  of  the  maid 

to  stray 
Over  the  strings ;  the  sweet  song  died 

away 
In  mellow,  drowsy  murmurs,  and  the 

lute 
Leaned  on  her  fairest  bosom,  and  was 

unite. 

Better  than  wine  that  music  was  to  me: 
Not  the  lute  only  felt  her  hands,  but 

she 
Played    on    my   heart-strings,    till    the 

sounds  became 

Incarnate  in  the  pulses  of  my  frame. 
Speech  left  my  tongue,  and  in  my  tears 

alone 
Found  utterance.     With  stretched  arms 

I  implored 

Continuance,  whereat  her  fingers  poured 
A  tenderer  music,  answering  the  tone 
Her  parted  lips  released,  the  while  her 

throat 

Throbbed,  as  a  heavenly  bird  were  flut 
tering  there, 
And  gave  her  voice  the  wonder  of  his 

note. 
'  His  brow,'  she  sang,  'is  white  beneath 

his  hair ; 

The  fertile  beard  is  soft  upon  his  chin, 
Shading  the  mouth  that  nestles  warm 

within, 

As  a  rose  nestles  in  its  leaves  ;  I  see 
His  eyes,  but  cannot  tell  what  hue  they 

"  be, 
For   the   sharp    eyelash,   like   a  sabre, 

speaks 
The    martial    law   of    Passion ;    in    his 

cheeks 
The  quick  blood  mounts,  and  then  as 

quickly  goes, 

Leaving  a  tint  like  marble  when  a  rose 
Is  held  inside  it:  —  bid  him  veil  his  eyes, 
Lest  all  my  soul  should  unto  mine  arise, 
And  he  behold  it!'     As  she  sang,  her 

gbmce 
Dwelt  on  my  face ;  her  beauty,  like  a 

lance, 
Transfixed   my  heart.     I  melted   into 

sighs, 
Slain  by  the  arrows  of  her  beauteous 

eyes. 
'  Why  is  her  bosom  made  '  (I  cried)  '  a 

snare  1 

Why  does  a  single  ringlet  of  her  hair 
Hold  my  heart  captive  1 '     '  Would  you 
know  1 '  ehe  said  ; 


'  It  is  that  you  are  mad  with  love,  and 

chains 
Were  made  for  madmen.'     Then  she 

raised  her  head 
With  answering  love,  that  led  to  other 

strains, 
Until  the  lute,  which  shared  with  her 

the  smart, 
Rocked  as  in  storm  upon  her  beating 

heart. 
Thus  to  its  wires  she  made  impassioned 

cries : 

'  I  swear  it  by  the  brightness  of  his  eyss  ; 
I  swear  it  by  the  darkness  of  his  hair  ; 
By  the  warm  bloom  his  limbs  and  bosom 

wear ; 

By  the  fresh  pearls  his  rosy  lips  enclose ; 
By  the  calm  majesty  of  his  repose ; 
By  smiles  I  coveted,  and  frowns  I  feared, 
And   by   the   shooting  myrtles   of   his 

beard, — 
I  swear  it,  that  from  him  the  morning 

drew 
Its  freshness,  and  the  moon  her  silvery 

hue, 
The  sun   his  brightness,  and  the  stars 

their  fire, 

And  musk  and  camphor  all  their  odor 
ous  breath : 

And  if  he  answer  not  my  love's  desire, 
Day  will  be  night  to  me,  and  Life  be 

Death  ! ' 


"  Scarce   had   she  ceased,  when,   over 

come,  I  fell 

Upon  her  bosom,  where  the  lute  no  more 
That  night  was  cradled ;  song  was  si- 

leuced  well 

With  kisses,  each  one  sweeter  than  he- 
fore, 
Until    their    fiery    dew    so    long    was 

quaffed, 
I    drank    delirium    in    the    infectious 

draught. 
The  guests   departed,  but  the  sounds 

they  made 
I  heard  not ;   in  the  fountain-haunted 

shade 
The  lamps  burned  out ;  the  moon  rode 

far  above, 
But  the  trees  chased  her  from  our  nest 

of  love. 
Dizzy  with  passion,  in    mine   ears  the 

blood 
Tingled  and  hummed  in  a  tumultuous 

flood, 
Until  from  deep  to  deep  I  seemed  to  fall, 


POEMS    OF   THE   ORIENT. 


Like   him,  who  from   El    Sirat's   hair- 
drawn  wall 
Plunges  to   cruile.-s   gulfs.     In   bioken 

gleams 
Glimmered  the  things  I  saw,  so  mixed 

with  dreams 

The  vain  confusion  blinded  every  sense, 
And  knowledge  left  me.     Then  a  sleep 

intense 
Fell  on  my  brain,  and  held  me  as  the 

dead, 

Uutil  a  sudden  tumult  smote  my  head, 
And  a  strong  glare,  as  when  a  torch  is 

hurled 
Before  a  sleeper's  eyes,    brought  back 

the  world. 


"  Most  wonderful  !     The  fountain  and 

the  trees 
Had   disappeared,  arid  in  the  place  of 

these 

I  SMW  the  well-known  Gate  of  Victory. 
The  sun  was  high  ;  the  people  looked'  at 

me, 
And  marvelled  that  a  sleeper  should  he 

there 
On    the   hot  pavement,  for  the.  second 

prayer 
\V:'.s  called   from  all   the  minarets.     I 

passed 
My  hand  acioss  my  eyes,  and  found  at 

last 
Wlrit    m.m  I  was.     Then    straightway 

through  my  heart 
There  rang  a  double  pang,  —  the  bitter 

smart 
Of  evil  knowledge,  and  the  unhealthy 

lust 
Of  sinful   pleasure ;    and  I  threw  the 

dust 

Upon  my  head,  the  burial  of  my  pride, — 
The  ashen  soil,  wherein  I  plant  the  tree 
Of  Penitence.  The  people  saw,  and 

cried, 
'  ?>Iay  God  reward  thee,  Hassan  !  Truly, 

thou, 
IVhom  men  have  honored,  addest  to  thy 

brow 

The  crowning  lustre  of  Humility  : 
As  thou  abasesr,  God  exalteth  thec  ! ' 
Which  when  I  heard,  I  shed  such  tears 

of  shame 

As  might  erase  the  record  of  my  blame, 
And  from  that  time  I  have  not  dared  to 

curse 
The   unrighteous,    since   the    man    who 

seemeth  worse 


Than  I,  may  purer  be  ;  for,  when  I  fell 
Temptation  reached  a  loftier  pinnacle. 
Therefore,  0  Man!  be  Charity  thy  aim  : 
Praise  cannot  harm,  but  weigh  thy  words 

of  blame. 

Distrust  the  Virtue  that  itself  exalts, 
But   turn   to  that  which  doth  avow  its 

faults, 
And  from  Repentance  plucks  a  whole-' 

some  fruit. 

Pardon,  not    Wrath,  is  God's  best  attri 
bute." 


"  The  tale,  O  Poet  !  which  thv  lips  have 

told," 

I  said,  "  is  words  of  rubies  set  in  gold. 
Precious   the   wisdom  which  from  evil 

draws 
Strength  to  fulfil   the  good,  of  Allah's 

laws: 
But  lift  thy  head,  0  Hassan  !     Thine 

own  words 
Shall   best  console  thee,  for  my  tongue 

affords 
No  phrase   but    thanks  for  what  thou 

hast  bestowed  ; 
And  yet  I  fain  would  have  thee  shake 

the  load 
Of  shame  from  off  thy  shoulders,  seeing 

still 
That  bv  this  fall  thou  hast  increased  thv 

will 
To  do  the  work  which  makes  thee  truly 

blest." 
Hassan  Ben  Khaled  wept  and  smote  his 

breast  : 
"  Hold  !  hold,  0  Man  !  "  he  cried  :  "  why 

make  me  feel 
A  deeper  shame !     Why    force    me  to 

reveal 

That  Sin  is  as  the  leprous  taint  no  art 
Can    cleanse   the  blood  from  ?    In  my 

secret  heart 

I  do  believe  I  hold  at  dearer  cost 
The  vanished  Pleasure,  than  the  Virtue 

lost." 

So  saying,  he  arose  and  went  his  way  ; 
And  Allah  grant  he  go  no  more  astray. 

SHEKH  AHNAF'S  LETTER 
FROM  BAGHDAD. 

I>f  Allah's  name,  the  Ever  Merciful, 
The  Most  Compassionate !    To  thee,  nay 
friend, 


SHEKII   AHNAF  S   LETTER   FROM    BAGHDAD. 


Ben-Arii,  peace  and  blessing  !    May  this 

scroll, 

A  favored  herald,  tell  thee  in  Tangier 
That  Ahnaf  follows  soon,  if  Allah  wills! 
Yes,  after  that  last  day  at  Arafat 
Whereof  I  wrote   thee, —  after  weary 

moons, 
Delayed  among  the  treacherous  Waha- 

bees,  — 
The  long,  sweet  rest  beneath  Derreyeh's 

palms, 
That  cooled  my  body  for  the  burning 

bath 

Of  naked  valleys  in  the  hither  waste 
Beside    Euphrates,  —  now    behoid    me 

here 
In  Baghdad  !     Here,  and  drinking  from 

the  well 
Whose  first   pure  waters  fertilized  the 

West ! 

I,  as  thou  knowest,  with  both  my  hands 
took  hold 

Of  Law  and  of  Tradition,  so  to  lift 

To  knowledge  and  obedience  my  soul. 

Severe  was  I  accounted  —  but  my 
strength 

Was  likewise  known  of  all  men;  and  I 
craved 

The  sterner  discipline  which  Islam  first 

Endured,  and  knit  the  sinews  of  our  race. 

What  says  the  Law  ?  —  "  Who  changes 
or  perverts, 

Conceals,  rejects,  or  holds  of  small  ac 
count, 

Though  it  were  but  the  slightest  seem 
ing  word, 

Hath  all  concealed,  perverted,  slighted !  " 
This, 

Thou  knowest,  I  held,  and  hold.  Here, 
I  hoped, 

The  rigid  test  should  gladden  limbs  pre 
pared 

To  bend,  accept,  and  then  triumphant 
rise. 

Even  as  the  weak  of  faith  rejoice  to 
find 

Some  lax  interpretation,  I  rejoiced 

_n  foretaste  of  the  sure  severity. 

As  near  I  drew,  across  the  sandy  flats, 

Above  the  palms  the  yellow  minaret 

Wrote  on  the  sky  my  welcome :  "  Ahnaf, 
hail ! 

Here,  in  the  city  of  the  Abbasid, 

Set  thou  thine  evening  by  its  morning 
star 

Of  Faith,  and  bind  the  equal  East  and 
West ! " 


Ah   me,    Bcn-Arif !    how  shall   pen   of 

mine 

Set  forth  the  perturbation  of  the  soul  ? 
To  doubt  were  death  ;    not  hope,  were 

much  the  s-.une 
As  not   believe  —  but  Allah  tries  my 

strength 

With  tests  far  other  than  r^?erest  law. 
When    I    had    bathed,   i^d    then    had 

cleansed  with  prayer 
My  worn  aud dusty  soul,  (so,  doubly  pure, 
Pronounced  the  fathah  as  't  is  heard  in 

Heaven), 
I  sought  the  court-yard  of  Almausour's 

mosque, 

Where,  after  asser,  creeping  shadows  cool 
The   marble,  and   the   shekhs   in  com 
merce  grave 
Keep   fresh   the   ancient  wisdom.     Me 

they  gave 
Reception    kindly,  though  perchance  I 

felt  — 
Or    fancied,    only  —  lack    of    special 

warmth 
For  vows  accomplished  and  my  pilgrim 

zeal. 
"  Where  is  Tangier '? "  said  one ;  whereat 

the  rest 
With  most  indifferent   knowledge   did 

discuss 
The    problem  —  none,    had    they    but 

questioned  me !  — 
Then  snatched   again  the  theme  they 

half  let  drop, 
And  in  their  heat  forgot  me. 

I,  abashed, 
Sat  listening :  vainly  did  I  prick  mine 

ears. 
I  knew  the  words,  indeed,  but  missed 

therein 
The  wonted  sense :    they  stripped   our 

Holy  Book 
Of  every  verse  which  not  contains  the 

Law,  — 
Spake  Justice  and  Forgiveness,  Peace 

and  Love, 
Nor  once  the  duties  of  the  right  hand 

fixed, 

Nor  service  of  the  left:  the  nature  they 
Of  Allah  glorified,  and  not  His  names  : 
Of  customs  aud  observances  no  word 
Their  lips  let  fall :  and  I  distinguished 

not. 
Save  by  their  turbans,  that  they  other 

were 
Than  Jews,  or  Christians,  or  the  Pagans 

damned. 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT. 


Methought  I  dreamed  and  in  my  mind 
withdrawn 

At  last  heard  only  the  commingling  clash 

Of  voices  near  me,  and  the  songs  outside 

Of  boatmen  on  the  Tigris.     Then  a  hand 

Came  on  my  shoulder,  and  the  oldest 
shekh, 

White-bearded  Hatem,  spake :  "  0  Ah- 
naf!  thon 

Art  here  a  stranger,  and  it  scarce  be 
seems 

That  we  should  speak  of  weighty  mat 
ters  thus 

Ts  uninstructed  ears  —  the  less,  to 
thine, 

Which,  filled  so  long  with  idle  sand,  re 
quire 

The  fresh  delight  of  sympathetic  speech 

That  cools  like  yonder  fountain,  and 
makes  glaci. 

Nor  wouldst  thou  hear,  perchance,  nor 
could  we  give 

An  easy  phrase  us  key  to  what  so  long 

Hath  here  been  forged  :  but  come  to 
night  with  me 

Where  this  shall  be  applied,  and  more, 
to  bring 

Islam  a  better  triumph  than  the  sword 

Of  AH  gave  ;  for  that  but  slew  the  foe, 

This  maketh  him  a  friend." 

I,  glad  at  heart 

To  know  my  hope  not  false,  yet  won 
dering  much, 

Gave  eager  promise,  and  at  nightfall 
went 

With  Hatem  to  the  college  of  a  sect 

We  know  not  in  the  West  —  nor  is  there 
need : 

An  ancient  hall  beneath  a  vaulted  dome, 

With  hanging  lamps  well  lit,  and  cush 
ioned  seats 

Where  sat  a  grave  and  motley  multi 
tude. 

When  they  biheld  my  guide,  they  all 
arose, 

.•\nd  "Peace  be  with  thec,  Hatem!" 
greeting,  cried. 

I!a,  whispering  to  me  :  "  0  Ahnaf,  sit 

And  hear,  be  patient,  wonder  if  thou 
wilt. 

But  keep  thy  questions  sagely  to  the  end, 

When  I  shall  seek  thee" — to  a  dais 
passed, 

^.nd  sat  him  down.  And  all  were  silent 
there 

In  decent  order,  or  in  whispers  spoke  ; 

But  great  my  marvel  was  when  I  beheld 


Parsee   and  Jew  and  Christian — yea, 

the  race 

Of  Boodh  and  Brahma — with  the  Faith 
ful  mixed 
As  if  were  no  defilement  !     Lo  !    thny 

rose 

Again,  with  equal  honor  to  salute 
The  Rabbi  Daood,  Je  west  of  the  Jews,  — 
And  even  so,  for  an  Armenian  priest  !     . 
Yet  both  some  elder  prophets  share  with 

us, 
And   it  might   pass :   but   t~vice  again 

they  rose,  — 
Once  for  a   Parsee,  tinged  like  smoky 

milk, 
His  hat  a  leaning  tower,  —  and  once,  a 

dark, 
Grave  man,  with  turban  thinner  than  a 

wheel, 
A    wafer    on     his     forehead     (Satan's 

sign!)  — 

A  worshipper  of  Ganges  and  the  cow  ! 
These    made    my  knees  to    smite :    yet 

Hatem  stood 
And  gave  his  band,  and  they  beside  him 

sat. 

Then   one   by   one   made   speech ;   and 

what  the  first, 
The   slirill-tongued -Ilabbi,   claimed   as 

rule  for  all, 
That    they    accepted.      "  Forasmuch  " 

(said  he) 

"  As  either  of  our  sects  hath  special  lore 
Which  not  concerns  the  others  —  special 

signs 
And  marvels  which  the  others  must  re 

ject, 

However  holy  and  attested  deemed, 
Set  we   all   such   aside,  and   hold   oui 

minds 
Alone  to  that  which  in  our  creeds  hat!, 

power 

To    move,    enlighten,    strengthen,   pu 
rify,  — 

The  God  behind  the  veil  of  miracles  ! 
So  speak  we  to    the   common  brain  oi 

each 
And  to  the  common  heart ;  for  what  of 

Truth 

Grows  one  with  life,  is  manifest  to  all, 
Or  Jew,  or  Moslem,  or  whatever  name, 
And  none  deny  it:  test  we  then  how 

much 
This  creed  or  that  hath  power  to  shapa 

true  lives." 
All  there  these  words  applauded :  H* 

tern  most, 


SHKKH  AHNAF'S  LETTER  FROM  BAGHDAD. 


47 


Who   spaka  :    "My    acquiescence    lies 

therein, 
That  on  thy  truth,  0  Jew !  I  build  the 

claim 

Of  him,  our  Prophet,  to  authority." 
Then  some  one  near  me,  jeering,  said  : 

"  Well  done  ! 
He  gives   up    Gabriel    and    the   Beast 

Boriik !  " 
"  Yea,     but  "  —  another     answered  — 

"  must  the  Jew 
Net   also   lose    his    Pharaohs    and    his 

plagues, 
IIiS  rams'-horns  and  his  Joshua  and  the 

sun  ?  " 
"  For  once  the  Christians,"  whispered 

back  a  Jew, 
"  Must  cease  to  turn  their  water  into 

wine, 
Or  feed  the  multitude  with  five  small 

loaves 
And  two  small  fishes."     Thus  the  peo- 

;le  talked ; 
,  as  one  that  in  a  dream  appears 
To  eat  the  flesh  of  swine,  and  cannot 

help 

The    loathsome    dream,    awaited  what 
should  come. 

To  me  it  seemed — and  doubtless  to  the 

rest, 
Though  heretics  and  pagans —  as  the 

chiefs 
Who  there  disputed  were  both  maimed 

and  bound, 
So  little   dared   they  offer,  shorn   and 

lopped 

Of  all  their  vigor,  false  as  well  as  true. 
Was   it   of    Islam  that   Shekh   Hatem 

spake, 
With   ringing  tongue  and  fiery  words 

that  forced 
Unwilling  tears  from  Pagan  and  from 

Jew, 
And  cries  of  "  Allah  Akhbar  !  "  from  his 

own  1 
Forsooth,  I  know  not :  he  was  Islam's 

chief. 
Mow  dared  he  nod  his  head  and  smile, 

to  hear 
The  Jew  declare  his  faith  in  God  the 

Lord, 

The  Christian  preach  of  love  and  sacri 
fice, 

The  Parsee  and  the  Hindoo  recognize 
The  gifts  of  charity  and  temperance. 
A.nd  peace  and  purity  ?     If  this  be  so, 
A.nd  heretic  and  pagan  crowd  with  us 


The  gates  of  Allah's  perfect  Paradise, 
Why  hath  He  sent  His  Prophet?     Nay, 

—  I  write 

In  anger,  not  in  doubt :  nor  need  I  here 
To   thee,  Beu-Arif,  faithful  man    and 

wise, 
Portray  the  features  of  my  shame  and 

grief. 

Ere  all  had  fully  spoken,  I,  confused,— 
Hearing  no  word  of  washing  cr  of  pray  or. 
Of  cross,  or  ark,  or  fire,  or  symbol  else 
Idolatrous,  obscene,  —  could  only  £-  -*«i 
What  creed  was  glorified  befon  .t\ 

crowd, 
By  garb  and  accent  of  the  chief  who 

spake  : 
And  scarcely  then  ;  for  oft,  as  one  set 

forth 

His  holiest  duties,  all,  as  with  one  voice, 
Kxclaimed  :  "  But  also  these  are  mine  ! " 

The  strife 
Was  then,  how  potent  were  they,  how 

observed,  — 

Made  manifest  in  life  ?    One  cannot  say 
That  such  are  needless,  but  their  sacred 

stamp 
Comes  from  observance  of  all  forms  of 

law, 
Which  here  —  the  strength  of  Islam  — 

was  suppressed. 
Their  wrangling  —  scarcely  could  it  so 

be  called  !  — 
Was  o'er  the  husks :  the  kernel  of  the 

creed 
They  first  picked  out,  and  flung  it  to 

the  winds. 

I,  pierced   on   every    side   with  sorest 

stings, 

Waited  uneasily  the  end  delayed, 
AVhen  Hatem  spake  once  more  :  his  eye 

was  bright, 
And  the  long  beard  that  o'er  his  girdle 

rolled 
Shook  as   in   storm.     "Now.    G<-d  be 

praised  !  "  he  cried  : 
"  God  ever  merciful,  compassionate, 
Hath  many  children  ;  these  have  manv 

tongues : 
But  of  one  blood  are  they,  one  trut  i 

they  seek, 
One  law  of  Love  and  Justice  fits  them 

all. 
And  they  have  many  Prophets  :  mav  r 

be, 
Though  not  of  like  commission,  in  so 

far 


POEMS   OF    THE   ORIENT. 


As  they  declare  His  truth,  they  speak 

for  Him ! 
Go  past  their  histories :   accept  their 

souls, 

Aiid  whatsoe'er  of  perfect  and  of  pure 
Is  breathed  from  each,  in  each  and  all 

the  same, 

Confirms  the  others'  office  and  its  own  ! 
Here    is    the    centre    of    the    moving 

wheel,  — 

The  point  of  rest,  wherefrom  the  sepa 
rate  creeds 
Build   oufc   their  spokes,  that  seem  to 

chase  and  flee, 

Revolving  in  the  marches  of  His  Day  ! 
If  one  be  weak,  destroy  it :  if  it  bear 
Unstrained  His  glory  of  Eternal  Truth, 
And  firmer  fibre  from  the  ages  gain, 
Behold,  at  la>t  it  shall  replace  the  rest ! 
Even  as  He  wills  !    The  bright  solution 

grows 
Nearer  and  clearer  with   the  whirling 

years  : 

Till  finally  the  use  of  outward  signs 
Shall  be  outworn,  the  crumbling  walls 

thrown  down, 
And  one  Keligiou  shall   make  glad  the 

world  ! " 

More  I  could  not  endure:  I  did  not 
wait 

For  Hatem's  coming,  as  he  promised 
»  me ; 

Yet  —  ere  amid  the  crowds  I  could 
escape  — 

I  saw  the  Habbi  and  the  Christian  priest 

Fall  on  his  neck  with  weeping.  With 
a  groan, 

A  horrid  sense  of  smothering  in  my 
throat, 

And  words  I  will  not  write,  T  gained 
the  air, 

And  saw,  O  Prophet !  how  thy  Cres 
cent  shone 

Above  the  feathery  palm-tops,  and  the 
dona 

Of  Ilarouti's  tomb  upon  the  Tigris' 
bank. 

And  this  is  Baghdad  !  —  Eblis,  rather 
say  !  — 

O  fallen  city  of  tho  Abbasid, 

Where  Islam  is  defiled,  and  by  its 
sons ! 

Prepare,  Ben-Arif,  to  receive  thy  friend, 

Who  with  the  coining  moon  shall  west 
ward  turn 

To  keep  his  faith  undarkened  in  Tan 
gier  ! 


EL  KHALIL. 

I  AM  no  chieftain,  fit  to  lead 

Where  spears  are  hurled  and  war  Jars 

bleed  ; 

Xo  i  oet,  in  my  chanted  rhyme 
To  rouse  the  ghosts  of   ancient  tlui-j  ; 
No  magian,  with  a  subtle  ken 
To  rule  the  thoughts  of  other  men  ; 
Yet  far  as  sounds  the  Arab  tongun 
My  name  is  known  to  old  and  young. 

My  form  has  lost  its  pliant  grace, 
There  is  no  beauty  in  my  face, 
There  is  no  cunning  in  my  arm, 
The  Children  of  the  Sun  to  charm  ; 
Yet,  where  I  go,  my  people's  eyes 
Are  lighted  with  a  glad  surprise, 
And  in  each  tent  a  couch  is  free, 
And  by  each  fire  a  place,  for  me, 

They  watch  me  from   the  palms,  and 

some 

Proclaim  my  coming  ere  I  come. 
The  children  lift  my  hand  to  im'et. 
The  homage  of  their  kisses  sweet ; 
With  manly  warmth  the  men  embrace, 
The  veiled  maidens  seek  my  face, 
And  eyes,  fresh  kindled  from  the  heart 
Keep  loving  watch  when  I  depart. 

On  God,  the  Merciful,  I  call, 
To  shed  His  blessing  over  all : 
I  praise  His  name,  for  He  is  Great, 
And  Loving,  and  Compassionate; 
And  for  the  gift  of  love  I  give  — 
The  breath  of  life  whereby  I  live  — 
He  gives  me  back,  in  overflow, 
Ilis  children's  love,  where'er  I  go. 

Deep  sunk  in  sin  the  man  must  be 
That  has  no  friendly  word  for  me. 
I  pass  through  tribes  whose  trade  a 

death, 

And  not  a  sabre  quits  the  sheath. ; 
For  strong,  and  cruel  as  they  prove, 
The  sons  of  men  are  weak  to  L->ve. 
The  humblest  gifts  to  them  I  bring  ; 
Yet  in  their  hearts  I  rule,  a  king. 


SOXG. 

DAUGHTER  of  Kgypt,  veil  thine  eysssl 

I  cannot  bear  their  fire  ; 
Nor  will  I  touch  with  sacrifice 

Those  altars  of  Desire. 


AMRAN  S    WOOING. 


49 


For  they  arc  flames  that  slum  the  diy, 

And  their  unholy  light 
Is  led  from  natures  gone  astray 

In  passion  and  in  night. 

The  stars  of  Beauty  and  of  Sin, 

Tlniy  burn  amid  the  dark, 
Like  beacons  that  to  ruin  win 

The  fascinated  bark. 
Then  veil  their  glow,  lest  I  forswear 

Ths  hopes  thou  canst  not  crown, 
And  in  the  black  waves  of  thy  hair 

My  struggling  manhood  drown  ! 

AMRAN'S  WOOING. 


Yon  ask,  O  Frank  !  how  Love  is  born 
Wifchin  these  glowing  climes  of  Morn, 
Where  envious  veils  conceal  the  charms 
That  tempt  a  Western  lover's  arms, 
And  how,  without  a  voice  or  sound, 
From  heart  to  heart  the  path  is  found, 
Since  on  the  eye  alone  is  flung 
The  burden  of  the  silent  tongue. 
You  hearken  with  a  doubtful  smile 
Whene'er  the  wandering  bards  beguile 
Our  evening  indolence  with  strains 
Whose  words  gush  molten  through  our 

veins,  — 

The  songs  of  Love,  but  half  confessed, 
Where  Passion  sobs  on  Sorrow's  breast, 
And  mighty  longings,  tender  fears, 
Steep  the  strong  heart  in  fire  and  tears. 
The  source  of  each  accordant  strain 
Lies  deeper  than  the  Poet's  brain. 
First  from  the  people's  heart  must  spring 
The  passions  which  he  learns  to  sing  ; 
They  are  the  wind,  the  harp  is  he, 
To  voice  their  fitful  melody,  — 
The  language  of  their  varying  fate, 
Their     pride,    grief,    love,    ambition, 

hate,  — 

The  talisman  which  holds  inwrought 
The  touchstone  of  the  listener's  thought ; 
That  penetrates  each  vain  disguise, 
And  brings  his  secret  to  his  eves. 
For,  like  a  solitary  bird 
That  hides  among  the  boughs  unheard 
Until  some  mate,  whose  carol  breaks, 
Its  own  betraying  song  awakes, 
So,  to  its  echo  in  those  lays, 
The  ardent  heart  itself  betrays, 
"rowned  with  a  prophet's  honor,  stands 
The  Poet,  on  Arabian  sands  ; 
A  chief,  whose  subjects  love  his  thrall, — 
i  lie  sympathizing  heart  of  all. 


Vaunt  not  your  Western  maids  tame, 
Whose  charms  to  every  gaze  are  free  : 
My  love  is  selfish,  and  would  share 
Scarce  with  the  sun,  or  general  air, 
The  s  ght  of  beauty  which  has  shone 
Once  for  mine  eyes,  and  'nine  alone. 
Love  likes  concealment ;  he  can  dress 
With  fancied  grace  the  loveliness 
That  shrinks  behind  its  virgin  veil, 
As  hides  the  moon  her  forehead  pale 
Behind  a  cloud,  yet  leaves  the  air 
Softer  than  if  her  orb  were  there. 
And  as  the  splendor  of  a  star, 
When  sole  in  heaven,  seems  brighter  far, 
So  shines  the  eye,  Love's  star  and  sun, 
The  brighter,  that  it  shines  alone. 
The  light  from  out  its  darkness  sent 
Is  Passion's  life  and  element ; 
And  when  the  heart  is  warm  and  young, 
Let  but  that  single  ray  be  flung 
Upon  its  surface,  and  the  deep 
Heaves  from  its  unsuspecting  sleep, 
As  heaves  the  ocean  when  its  floor 
Breaks  over  the  volcano's  core. 
Who  thinks  if  cheek  or  lip  be  fair? 
Is  not  all  beauty  centered  where 
The  soul  looks  out,  the  feelings  move, 
And  Love  his  answer  gives  to  love? 
Look  on  the  sun,  and  you  will  find 
For  other  sights  your  eyes  are  blind. 
Look  — if  the  colder  blood  you  share 
Can  give  your   heart  the  strength   to 

dare  — 

In  eyes  of  dark  and  tender  fire : 
What  more  can  blinded  love  desire  ? 


I  was  a  stripling,  quick  and  bold, 
And  rich  in  pride  as  poor  in  gold, 
When  God's  good  will  my  journey  bent 
One  day  to  Shekh  Abdalfah's  tent. 
My  only  treasure  was  a  steed 
Of  Araby's  most  precious  breed  ; 
And  whether  't  was  in  boastful  whim 
To  show  his  mettled  speed  of  limb, 
Or  that  presumption,  which,  in  sooth, 
Becomes  the  careless  brow  of  youth, — 
Which  takes  the  world  as  birds  the  air, 
And  moves  in  freedom  everywhere,  — 
It  matters  not.     But  'midst  the  tents 
I  rode  in  easy  confidence, 
Till  to  Abdullah's  door  I  pressed 
And  made  myself  the  old  man's  guest. 
My  "  Peace  be  with  you  ! "  was  returned 
With  the  grave  courtesy  he  learned 


50 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT. 


From  age  anl  long  authority, 
And  in  God's  name  he  welcomed  me. 
The  pipe  replenished,  with  its  stem 
Of  jasmine  wood  and  amber  gem, 
Was  at  my  lips,  and  while  I  drew 
The  rosy-sweet,  soft  vapor  through 
In  ringlets  of  dissolving  blue, 
Waiting  his  speech  with  reverence  meet, 
A  woman's  garments  brushed  my  feet, 
And  first  through  boyish  senses  ran 
The  pulse  of  love  which  made  me  man. 
The  handmaid  of  her  father's  cheer, 
With  timid  grace  she  glided  near, 
And,  lightly  dropping  on  her  knee, 
Held  out  a  silver  zerf  to  me, 
Within  whose  cup  the  fragrance  sent 
From  Yemen's  sunburnt  berries  blent 
With  odors  of  the  Persian  rose. 
That  picture  still  in  memory  glows 
With  the  same  heat  as  then,  —  the  gush 
Of  fever,  with  its  fiery  flush 
Startling  my  blood  ;  and  I  can  see  — 
As  she  this  moment  knelt  to  me  — 
The  shrouded  graces  of  her  form  ; 
The  half-seen  arm,  so  round  and  warm ; 
The  little  hand,  whose  tender  veins 
Branched  through  the   henna's   orange 

stains ; 

The  head,  in  act  of  offering  bent ; 
And  through  the  parted  veil,  which  lent 
A  charm  for  what  it  hid,  the  eye, 
Gazelle-like,  large,  and  dark,  and  sh_y, 
That  with  a  soft,  sweet  tremble  shone 
Beneath  the  fervor  of  my  own, 
Yet  could  not,  would  not,  turn  away 
The  fascination  of  its  ray, 
But  half  in  pleasure,  haff  in  fright, 
Grew  unto  mine,  and  builded  bright 
From  heart  to  heart  a  bridge  of  light. 

IV. 

From  the  fond  trouble  of  my  look 
The  zerf  within  her  fingers  shook, 
As  with  a  start,  like  one  who  breaks 
Some   happy    trance    of    thought,    and 

wakes 

Unto  forgotten  toil,  she  rose 
And  passed.     I  s;iw  the  curtnins  close 
Behind  her  steps  :  the  light,  was  gone, 
Out  ii  the  dark  my  heart  dreamed  on. 
S<Mn6    random    words  —  thanks   ill    ex 
pressed  — 

I  to  the  stately  Shekh  addressed, 
With  the  intelligence  which  he, 
My  host,  could  not  demand  of  me  ; 
How,  wandering  in  the  desert  chase, 
I  spied  from  fa?  his  camping-place, 


And  Arab  honor  bnde  me  halt 

To  break  his  bread  and  share  his  salt 

Thereto,  fit  reverence  for  his  name, 

The  praise  our  speech  is  quick  to  frame, 

Which,  empty  though  it  seem,  was  dear 

To  the  old  warrior's  willing  ear, 

And  led  his  thoughts,  by  many  a  track., 

To  deeds  of  ancient  prowess  back, 

Until  my  love  could  safely  hide 

Beneath  the  covert  of  his  pride. 

And   when  his   "  Go  with  God  ! "  was 

said, 

Upon  El-Azrek's  back  I  sped 
Into  the  desert,  wide  and  far, 
Beneath  the  silver  evening-star, 
And,  fierce  with  passion,  without  heed 
Urged  o'er  the  sands  my  snorting  steed, 
As  if  those  afrites,  feared  of  man,  — 
Who  watch  the  lonely  caravan, 
And,  if  a  loiterer  lags  behind, 
Efface  its  tracks  with  sudden  wind, 
Then  fill  the  air  with  cheating  cries, 
And  make  false  pictures  to  his  eyes 
Till  the  bewildered  sufferer  dies,  — 
Had  breathed  on  me  their  demon  breath, 
And  spurred  me  to  the  hunt  of  Death. 


Yet  madness  such  as  this  was  worth 
All  the  cool  wisdom  of  the  earth. 
Atid  sweeter  glowed  its  wild  unrest 
Than  the  old  calm  of  brain  and  breast. 
The  image  of  that  maiden  beamed 
Through    all    I    saw,    or    thought,    ot 

dreamed, 

Till  she  became,  like  Light  or  Air, 
A  part  of  life.     And  she  shall  share, 
I  vowed,  my  passion  and  my  fate, 
Or  both  shall  fail  me,  soon  or  late, 
In  the  vain  effort  to  possess ; 
For  Life  lives  only  in  success. 
I  could  not,  in  her  father's  sight, 
Purchase  the  hand  which  was  his  right  ; 
And  well  1  knew  how  quick  denied 
The  prayer  would  be  to  emptv  pride  ; 
But  Heaven  and  Earth  shall  sooner  move 
Than  bar  the  energy  of  Love. 
The  sinews  of  my  life  became 
Obedient  to  that  single  aim 
And  desperate  deed  and  patient  thought 
Together  in  its  service  wrought. 
Keen  as  a  falcon,  when  his  eye 
In  search  of  quarry  reads  the  sky, 
I  stole  unseen,  at  eventide, 
Behind  the  well,  upon  whose  side 
The  girls  their  jars  of  water  leaned. 
By  one  long,  sandy  hillock  screened, 


AMRAN  S    \VOO!XG. 


51 


[  watched    the   forms   that   went   and 

came, 

With  eyes  that  sparkled  with  the  flame 
Up  from  my  heart  in  flashes  sent, 
As  one  by  one  they  came  and  went 
Amid  the  sunset  radiance  cast 
Oil    the    red    sands :    they  came    and 

passed, 
And  she,  —  thank  God  !  —  she  came  at 

last ! 


Then,  while  her  fair  companion  hound 
The  cord  her  pitcher's  throat  around, 
And  steadied  with  a  careful  hand 
Its  slow  descent,  upon  the  sand 
At  the  Shekh's  daughter's  feet,  I  sped 
A  slender  arrow,  shaft  and  head 
With    breathing    jasmine  -  flowers    en 
twined, 

And  roses  such  as  on  the  wind 
Of  evening  with  rich  odors  fan 
The  white  kiosks  of  Ispahan. 
A  moment,  fired  witli  love  and  hope, 
I  stayed  upon  the  yellow  slope 
El-Azrek's  hoofs,  to  see  her  raise 
Her  startled  eyes  in  sweet  amaze,  — 
To  see  her  make  the  unconscious  sign 
Which  recognized  the  gift  as  mine. 
And  place,  before  she  turned  to  part, 
The  flowery  barb  against  her  heart. 


Again  the  Shekh's  divan  I  pressed  : 
The    jasmine    pipe    was    brought    the 

guest, 

And  Mariam,  lovelier  than  before, 
Knelt  with  the  steamy  cup  once  more. 
0  bliss  !  within  those  eyes  to  see 
A  soul  of  love  look  out  on  me,  — 
A  fount  of  passion,  which  is  truth 
In  the  wild  dialect  of  Youth, — 
Whose  rich  ahundance  is  outpoured 
Like  worship  at  a  shrine  adored, 
And  on  its  rising  deluge  hears 
The  heart  to  raptures  or  despairs. 
While  from  the  cup  the  zerf  contained 
The  foamy  amber  juice  I  drained, 
A  rose-bud  in  the  zerf  "xpressed 
The  sweet  confession  of  her  breast. 
One  glance  of  glad  intelligence, 
Ana  silently  she  glided  thence. 
"  0  Shekh  !  "  I  cried,  as  she  withdrew, 
'Short  is  the  speech  where  hearts  are 

true,) 

'*  Thou  hast  a  daughter  ;  let  me  be 
\.  shield  to  her,  a  sword  to  thee  !  " 


Abdallah  turned  his  steady  eye 
Full  on  my  face,  and  made  reply  : 
"  It  cannot  be.     The  treasure  sent 
By  God  must  not  be  idly  spent. 
Strong  men  there  are,  in  service  tried, 
Who  seek  the  maiden  for  a  bride  ; 
And   shall    I   slight    their   worth    ami 

truth 
To  feed  the  passing  flame  cf  youth '»  " 


"  No  passing  flame  !  "  my  answer  ran  ; 
"  But  love  which  is  the  life  of  man, 
Warmed   with   his   blood,   fed    by   Lis 

breath, 
And,   when    it    fails    him,  leaves   but 

Death. 

0  Shekh,  I  hoped  not  thy  consent ; 
But  having  tasted  in  thy  tent 

An  Arab  welcome,  shared  thy  bread, 

1  come  to  warn  thee  I  shall  wed 
Thy  daughter,  though  her  suitors  be 
As  leaves  upon  the  tamarind-tree. 
Guard  her  as  thou  mayst  guard,  I  sweai 
No  other  bed  than  mine  shall  wear 
Her  virgin  honors,  and  thy  race 
Through  me  shall  keep  its  ancient  place. 
Thou  'rt  warned,  and  duty  bids  no  more  ; 
For,  when  I  next  approach  thy  door, 
Her  child  shall  intercessor  be 

To  build  up  peace  'twixt  thee  and  me." 
A  little  flushed  my  boyish  brow  ; 
But  calmly  then  1  spake,  as  now. 
The  Shekh,  with  dignity  that  flung 
Rebuke  on  my  impetuous  tongue, 
Replied  :  "  The  young  man's  hopes  are 

fair ; 
The  young  man's  blood  would  all  thing* 

dare. 

But  age  is  wisdom,  and  can  bring 
Confusion  on  the  soaring  wing 
Of  reckless  youth.     Thy  words  are  just. 
But  needless  ;  for  I  still  can  trust 
A  father's  jealousy  to  shield 
From  robber  grasp  the  gem  concealed 
Within  his  tent,  till  he  may  yield 
To  fitting  hands  the  precious  store. 
Go,  then,  in  peace ;  but  come  no  more.' 


My  only  sequin  served  to  bribe 

A  cunning  mother  of  the  tribe 

To  Mariana's  mind  my  plan  to  bring. 

A  feather  of  the  wild  dove's  wing, 

A  lock  of  raven  gloss  and  stain 

Sheared  from  El-Azrek's  flowing  mare 


52 


POEMS    OF   THE   ORIENT. 


And  that  pale  flower  whose  fragrant  cup 
Is  closed  until  the  moon  conies  up,  — 
But  then  a  tenderer  beauty  holds 
Than  any  flower  the  sun  unfolds,  — 
Declared  my  purpose.     Her  reply 
Let  loose  the  winds  of  ecstasy  : 
Two  roses  and  the  moonlight  flower 
Told  the  acceptance,  and  the  hour,  — 
Two  daily  suns  to  waste  their  glow, 
And  then,  at  moonrise,  bliss  —  or  woe. 


El-Azrek  now,  on  whom  alone 
The  burden  of  our  fate  was  thrown, 
Claimed  from  my  hands  a  double  meed 
Of  careful  training  for  the  deed. 
I  gave  him  of  my  choicest  store,  — 
No  guest  was  ever  honored  more. 
With  flesh  of  kid,  with  whitest  bread 
And  dates  of  Egypt  was  he  fed  ; 
The  camel's  heavy  udders  gave 
Their  frothy  juice  his  thirst  to  lave  : 
A  charger,  groomed  with  better  care, 
The  Sultan  never  rode  to  prayer. 
My  burning  hope,  my  torturing  fear, 
I  breathed  in  his  sagacious  ear ; 
Caressed  him  as  a  brother  might, 
Implored  his  utmost  speed  in  flight, 
Hung  on  his  neck  with  many  a  vow, 
And  kissed  the  white  star  on  his  brow. 
His  large  and  lustrous  eyeball  sent 
A  look  which  made  me  confident, 
As  if  in  me  some  doubt  he  spied, 
And  met  it  with  a  human  pride. 
"Enough:   I  trust  thee.    *T  is  the  hour, 
And  I  have  need  of  all  thy  power. 
Without  a  wing,  God  gives  thee  wings, 
And  Fortune  to  thy  forelock  clings." 


The  yellow  moon  was  rising  large 
Above  the  Desert-' s  dusky  marge, 
And  save  the  jackal's  whining  moan, 
Or  distant  camel's  gurgling  groan, 
And  the  lamenting  monotone 
Of  winds  that  breathe  their  vain  desire 
And  on  the  lonely  sands  expire, 
A  silent  charm,  a  breathless  spell, 
Waited  with  me  beside:  the  well. 
She  is  not  there,  —  not  yet, —  but  soon 
A  white  robe  glimmers  in  the  moon. 
Her  little  footsteps  make  no  sound 
On  the  soft  sand  ;  and  with  a  bound, 
Where  terror,  doubt,  and  love  unite 
To  blind  her  heart  to  all  but  flight, 
Trembling,  and  panting,  and  oppressed 


She  threw  herself  upon  my  breast. 
By  Allah  !  like  a  bath  of  flame 
The  seething  blood  tumultuous  came 
From  life's  hot  centre  as  I  drew 
Her  mouth  to  mine  :  our  spirits  grew 
Together  in  one  long,  long  kiss, — 
One  swooning,  speechless  pulse  of  blisk 
That,  throbbing  from  the  heaxt's  core 

met 

In  the  united  lips.     Oh,  yet 
The  eternal  sweetness  of  that  draught 
rJenews  the  thirst  with  which  I  quaffed 
Love's  virgin  vintage  :  starry  fire 
Leapt  from  the  twilights  of  desire, 
;\nd  in  the  golden  dawn  of  dreams 
The    space    grew  warm  with    radiant 

beams, 
Which  from  that  kiss  streamed  o'er  a 

sea 

Of  rapture,  in  whose  bosom  we 
Sank  down,  and  sank  eternally. 


Now  nerve  thy  limbs,  El-Azrek  !  Fling 
Thy  head  aloft,  and  like  a  wing 
Spread  on  the  wiud  thy  cloudy  mane  ! 
The  hunt  is  up  :  their  stallions  strain 
The  urgent  shoulders  close  behind, 
And  the  wide  nostril  drinks  the  wind. 
But  thou  art,  too,  of  Nedjid's  breed, 
My  brother  !  and  the  falcon's  speed 
Slant  down  the  storm's  advancing  line 
Would  laggard  be  if  matched  with  thine. 
Still  leaping  forward,  whistling  through 
The  moonlight-laden  air,  we  flew  ; 
And  from  the  distance,  threateningly, 
Came  the  pursuer's  eager  cry. 
Still   forward,   forward,    stretched   oui 

flight 

Through  the  long  hours  of  middle  night  ; 
One  after  one  the  followers  lagged, 
And  even  my  faithful  Azrek  flagged 
Beneath  his  double  burden,  till 
The  streaks  of  dawn  began  to  fill 
The  East,  and  freshening  in  the  race, 
Their  goaded  horses  gained  apace. 
I  drew  my  dagger,  cut  the  girth, 
Tumbled  my  saddle  to  the  earth, 
And  clasped  with  desperate  energies 
My  stallion's  side  with  iron  knees ; 
While  Mariam,  clinging  to  my  breaat, 
The  closer  for  that  peril  pressed. 
They  come  !  they  come  !     Their  shor.tf 

we  hear, 

Now  faint  and  far,  now  fierce  and  near 
O  brave  El-Azrek  !  on  the  track 
Let  not  one  fainting  sinew  slack, 


THE   GARDEN   OF  IREM. 


53 


Or  know  thine  agony  of  flight 
Endured  in  vain  !     The  purple  light 
Of  breaking  morn  has  come  at  last. 
O  joy  !  the  thirty  leagues  are  past ; 
And,  gleaming  in  the  sunrise,  see, 
The  white  tents  of  the  A-aeyzee  ! 
The  warriors  of  the  waste,  the  foes 
Of  Shekh  Abdallah's  tribe,  are  those 
Whose  shelter  and  support  I  claim, 
Which  they  bestow  in  Allah's  name ; 
While,  wheeling  back,  the  baffled  few 
No  longer  venture  to  pursue. 


And  now,  O  Frank  !  if  you  would  see 

How  soft  the  eyes  that  looked  on  me 

Through  Mariana's  silky  lashes,  scan 

Those  of  my  little  Solyman. 

And  should  you  marvel  if  the  child 

His  stately  grandsire  reconciled 

To  that   bold   theft,   when    years   had 

brought 

The  golden  portion  which  he  sought, 
And  what  upon  this  theme  befell. 
The  Shekh  himself  can  better  tell. 

THE  GARDEN  OF  IREM. 


HAVE  you  seen  the  Garden  of  Irem  ? 
No  mortal  knoweth  the  road  thereto. 
Find  me  a  path  in  the  mists  that  gather 
When  the  sunbeams  scatter  the  morn 
ing  dew, 

And  I  will  lead  you  thither. 
Give  me  a  key  to  the  halls  of  the  sun 
When  he  goes  behind  the  purple  sea, 
Or  a  wand  to  open  the  vafilts  that  run 
Down  to  the  afrite-guarded  treasures, 
And  I  will  open  its  doors  to  thee. 
Who  hath  tasted  its  countless  pleasures'? 
Who  hath  breathed,  in  its  winds  of  spice, 
Raptures  deeper  than  Paradise  ? 
Who  hath  trodden  its  ivory  floors, 
Where  the  fount  drops   pearls  from  a 

golden  shell, 

And  heard  the  hin<;es  of  diamond  doors 
Swing  to  the  music  of  Israfel  ? 
Its  roses  blossom,  its  palms  arise, 
By  the  phantom  stream  that  flows  so  fair 
Under  the  Desert's  burning  skies. 
Dan  yon  reach  that  flood,  can  you  drink 

its  tide, 
Can  you  swim  its  waves  to  the  farther 

side, 
Your  feet  may  enter  there. 


I  have  seen  the  Garden  of  Irem. 
I  found  it,  but  I  sought  it  not : 
Without  a  path,  without  a  guide, 
I  found  the  enchanted  spot : 
Without  a  key  its  golden  gate  stood  wide. 
I  was  young,  and  strong,  and  bold,  and 

free 

As  the  milk-white  foal  of  the  Nedjidee, 
And  the  blood  in  my  veins  was  like  sap 

of  the  vine, 

That  stirs,  and  mounts,  and  will  not  stop 
Till  the  breathing  blossoms  that  bring 

the  wine 
Have  drained  its  balm  to  the  last  sweet 

drop. 

Lance  and  barb  were  all  I  knew, 
Till  deep  in  the  Desert  the  spot  I  found, 
Where  the  marvellous  gates  of  Irem  threw 
Their  splendors  over  an  unknown  ground. 
Mine  were  the  pearl  and  ivory  floors, 
Mine  the  music  of  diamond  doors, 
Turning  each  on  a  newer  glory  : 
Mine  were  the  roses  whose  bloom  outran 
The  spring-time  beauty  of  Gulistan, 
And  the  fabulous  flowers  of  Persian  story. 
Mine  were  the  palms  of  silver  stems, 
And  blazing  emerald  for  diadems ; 
The  fretted    arch  and    the    gossamer 

wreath, 

So  light  and  frail  you  feared  to  breathe ; 
Yet  o'er  them  rested  the  pendant  spars 
Of  domes  bespangled  with  silver  stars, 
And  crusted  gems  of  rare  adorning : 
And  ever  higher,  like  a  shaft  of  fire, 
The  lessening  links  of  the  golden  spire 
Flamed  in  the  myriad-colored  morning  < 

Like  one  who  lies  on  the  marble  lip 
Of  the  blessed  bath  in  a  tranquil  rest, 
And  stirs  not  even  a  finger's  tip 
Lest  the  beatific  dream  should  slip, 
So  did  I  lie  in  Irem's  breast. 
Sweeter  than  Life  and  stronger  than 

Death 
Was   every  draught    of    that    blissful 

breath ; 

Warmer  than  summer  came  its  glow 
To  the  youthful  heart  in  a  mighty  flood, 
And  sent  its  bold  and  generous  blood 
To  water  the  world  in  its  onward  flow. 
There,  where  the  Garden  of  Irem  lies, 
Are  the  roots  of  the  Tree  of  Paradise, 
And  happy  are  they  who  sit  below, 
Wtien  into  this  world  of  Strife  and  Death 
The   blossoms  are   shaken   by  Allah's 

breath. 


54  POEMS    OF   THE   ORIENT. 

THE  WISDOM  OF  ALL 


A.K    ARAB     LEGEND. 

THE  Prophet  once,  sitting  in  calm  de 
bate, 

Said:   "I  am   Wisdom's  fortress;  but 
the  gate 

Thereof  is  All." 
heard, 


Wherefore,  some  who 


With  unbelieving  jealousy  were  stirred ; 
And,  that  they  might  on  him  confusion 

bring, 
Ten  of  the  boldest  joined  to  prove  the 

thing. 

"  Let  us  in  turn  to  Ali  go,"  they  said, 
"  And  ask  if  Wisdom  should  be  sought 

instead 

Of  earthlv  riches;  then,  if  he  reply 
To  each  of  us,  in  thought,  accordantly, 
And  yet  to  none,  in  speech  or  phrase, 

the  same, 
His  shall  the  honor  be,  and  ours  the 

shame." 

Now,  when  the  first  his  bold  demand 
did  make, 

These  were  the  words  which  Ali  straight 
way  spake : — 

"  Wisdom  is  the  inheritance  of  those 
Whom    Allah    favors ;    riches,    of    his 
foes." 

Unto  the  second    he   said :    "  Thyself 

must  be 
Guard   to    thy    wealth  ;    but   Wisdom 

guardeth  thee." 

Unto  the  third :  "  By  Wisdom  wealth  is 

won  ; 
But  riches  purchased  wisdom  yet   for 

none." 

Unto  the  fourth  :  "  Thy  goods  the  thief 

may  take ; 
But  into   Wisdom's    house   he  cannot 

break." 

Unto  the  fifth :  "  Thy  goods    decrease 

the  more 
Thou  giv'st ;  but  use  enlarges  Wisdom's 

store." 

Unto  the  sixth  :  "  Wealth  tempts  to  evil 

ways ; 
But  the  desire  of    Wisdom    is   God's 

praise." 


Unto  the  seventh :  "  Divide  thy  wealth 

each  part 
Becomes  a  pittance.      Give  with  opei 

heart 

Thy  wisdom,   and    each  separate   gift 

shall  be 
All  that  thou  hast,  yet  not  impoverish 

thee." 

Unto  the  eight :  "  Wealth  cannot  keep 

itself  ; 
But  Wisdom   is   the   steward   even   of 

pelf." 

Unto  the  ninth  :  "  The  camels  slowly 
bring 

Thy  goods  ;  but  Wisdom  has  the  swal 
low's  wing." 

And  lastly,  when  the  tenth  did  question 

make, 
These  were  the  ready  words  which  Ali 

spake  :  — 
"  Wealth  is  a  darkness  which  the  soul 

should  fear ; 
But  Wisdom  is  the  lamp  that  makes  it 

clear." 

Crimson    with   shame  the   questioners 

withdrew, 
And  they   declared :    "  The   Prophet's 

words  were  true  ; 

The  mouth  of  Ali  is  the  golden  door 
Of  Wisdom." 

When  his  friends  to  Ali  bore 
These  words,  he  smiled  and  said  :  "  And 

should  they  ask 

The  same  unfil  my  dying  day,  the  task 
Were  easy ;  for  the  stream  from  Wis 
dom's  well, 
Which  God  supplies,  is  inexhaustible." 


AN   ORIENTAL  IDYL. 

A  SILVER  javelin  which  the  hills 

Have  hurled  upon,  the  plain  below, 
The  fleetest  of  the  Pharpar's  rills. 

Beneath  me  shoots  in  flashing  flow. 
I  hear  the  never-ending  laugh 

Of  jostling  waves  that  come  and  go, 
And  suck  the  bubbling  pipe,  and  quaff 

The  sherbet  cooled  in  mountain  snow 

The  flecks  of  sunshine  gleam  like  stars 
Beneath  the  canopy  of  shade ; 


DESERT    HYMN    TO    THE   SUN. 


55 


And  in  the  distant,  dim  bazaars 
I  scarcely  hear  the  hum  of  trade. 

No  evil  fear,  no  dream  forlorn, 
Darkens  my  heaven  of  perfect  blue  ; 

My  blood  is  tempered  to  the  morn,  — 
My  very  heart  is  steeped  in  dew. 

What  Evil  is  I  cannot  tell ; 

But  half  I  guess  what  Joy  may  be  ; 
And,  as  a  pearl  within  its  shell, 

The  happy  spirit  sleeps  in  me. 

I  feel  no  more  the  pulse's  strife,  — 
The  tides  of  Passion's  ruddy  sea,  — 

But  live  the  sweet,  unconscious  life 
That  breathes  from  yonder  jasmine 
tree. 

Upon  the  glittering  pageantries 
Of  gay  Damascus'  streets  I  look 

As  idly  as  a  babe  that  sees 

The  painted  pictures  of  a  book. 

Forgotten  now  are  name  and  race  ; 

The  Past  is  blotted  from  my  brain  ; 
For  Memory  sleeps,  and  will  not  trace 

The  weary  pages  o'er  again. 

I  only  know  the  morning  shines, 
And  sweet  the  dewy  morning  air  ; 

But  does  it  play  with  teudrilled  vines  ? 
Or  does  it  lightly  lift  my  hair  ? 

Deep-sunken  in  the  charmed  repose, 
This  ignorance  is  bliss  extreme  : 

And  whether  I  he  Man,  or  Rose, 

Oh,  pluck  me  not  from  out  my  dream  ! 


BEDOUIN  SONG. 

FROM  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee 

On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire  ; 
And  the  winds  are  left  behind 

In  the  speed  of  my  desire. 
Under  thy  window  I  stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry  : 
[  love  thee,  I  love  but  thce, 
With  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  tie  Judgment, 
Book  unfold! 

Look  from  thy  window  and  see 

My  passion  and  my  pain  ; 
(  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain. 


Let  the  night-winds  tc  uch  thy  brow 

With  the  heat  of  mr  burning  sigh, 
And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 
Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 

Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 

My  steps  are  nightly  driven, 
By  the  fever  in  my  breast, 
To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed 

The  word  that  shall  give  me  rest. 
Open  the  door  of  thy  heart, 

And  open  thy  chamber  door, 
And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 
The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 

DESERT  HYMN  TO  THE  SUN. 

i. 

UNDER  the  arches  of  the  morning  sky, 
Save  in  one  heart,  there  beats  no  life 

of  Man ; 

The  yellow  sand-hills  bleak  and  track 
less  lie, 

And  far  behind  them  sleeps  the  cara 
van. 

A  silence,  as  before  Creation,  broods 
Sublimely  o'er  the  desert  solitudes. 


A  silence  as  if  God  in  Heaven  were  still, 
And  meditating  some   new  wonder ! 
Earth 

And  Air  the  solemn  portent  own,  and 

thrill 

With  awful  prescience  of  the  coming 
birth. 

And  Night  withdraws,  and  on  their  sil 
ver  cars 

Wheel  to  remotest  space  the  trembling 
Stars. 


See  !   an   increasing  brightness,   broad 

and  fleet, 

Breaks  on  the  morning  in  a  rosy  flood, 
As  if  He  smiled  to  see  His  work  com 
plete, 

And  rested  from  it,  and  pronounced 
it  good. 


56 


POEMS   OF   THE  ORIENT. 


The  sands  lie  still,  and  every  wind  is 

furled : 
The  Sun  comes  up,  and  looks  upon  the 

world. 


Is  there  no  burst  of  music  to  proclaim 
The  pomp  and  majesty  of  this  new 

lord  ?  — 

1  golden  trumpet  in  each  beam  of  flame, 
Startling  the  universe  with  grand  ac 
cord  ? 

Must  Earth  be  dumb  beneath  the  splen 
dors  thrown 
From  his  full  orb  to  glorify  her  own  ? 


No :  with  an  answering  splendor,  more 

than  sound 
Instinct  with  gratulation,  she  adores. 

With  purple  flame  the  porphyry  hills 

are  crowned, 

And    burn    with   gold  the    Desert's 
boundless  floors ; 

And  the  lone  Man  compels  his  haughty 
knee, 

And,  prostrate  at   thy  footstool,   wor 
ships  thee. 


Before  the  dreadful  glory  of  thy  face 
He  veils  his  sight ;  he  fears  the  fiery 

rod 

Which  thou  dost  wield  amid  the  bright 
ening  space, 

As  if  the  sceptre  of  a  visible  god. 
If  not  the  shadow  of  God's  lustre,  thou 
Art  the  one  jewel  flaming  on  His  brow. 


Wrap   me   within  the    mantle  of  thy 

beams, 
And  feed  my  pulses  with  thy  keenest 

fire ! 
Here,  where  thy  full  meridian  deluge 

streamo 

Across  the  Desert,  let  my  blood  aspire 
To  ripen  in  the  vigor  of  thy  blaze, 
And  catch  a  warmth  to  shine  through 

darksr  lays !    . 


[  am  alone  before  thee  :  Lord  of  Light ! 
Begetter  of  the  life  of  things  that  live ! 


Beget   in   me  thy  calm,   self  balanced 

might ; 

To  me  thine  own  immortal  ardor  give. 
Yea,  though,  like  her  who  gave  to  Jove 

her  charms, 
My  being  wither  in  thy  fiery  arms. 


Whence  came  thy  splendors  ?     Heaven 

is  filled  with  thee  ; 
The  sky's  blue  walls  are  dazzling  with 

thy  train  ; 

Thou  sitt'st  alone  in  the  Immensity, 
And   in   thy  lap  the    World    grow  a 

young  again. 
Bathed  in  such  brightness,  drunken  with 

the  Day, 
He  deems  the  Dark  forever  passed  away. 


But   thou   dost   sheathe   thy  trenchant 

sword,  and  lean 
With  tempered  grandeur  towards  the 

western  gate  ; 

Shedding  thy  glory  with  a  brow  serene, 
And  leaving  heaven  all  golden  with 

thy  state  : 
Not  as   a    king  discrowned    and  over 

thrown, 
But  one  who  keeps,  and  shall  reclaim 

his  own. 


NILOTIC   DRINKING   SONG. 


You  may  water  your  bays,  brother-poets, 

with  lays 
That  brighten  the  cup  from  the  stream 

you  doat  on, 
By  the  Schuylkill's  side,  or  Cochituate's 

tide, 

Or  the  crystal  lymph  of  the  mountain 
Croton  : 

( We  may  pledge  from  these 
In  our  summer  ease, 
Nor    even   Anacreon's    shade   revile 
us  —  ) 

But  I,  from  the  flood 
Of  his  own  brown  blood, 
Will  drink  to  the  glory   of  ancient 
Nilus ! 


Cloud  never  gave  birth,  nor  cradle  the 

Earth, 
To  river  so  grand  and  fair  as  this  is 


NUBIA. 


57 


Not  the  waves  that  roll  us  the  gold  of 

Pactolus, 

Nor  cool  Cephissus,  nor  classic  Ilissus. 
The  lily  may  dip 
Her  ivory  lip 

To  kiss  the  ripples  of  clear  Eurotas ; 
But  the  Nile  brings  balm 
From  the  myrrh  and  palm, 
And  the  ripe,  voluptuous  lips  of  the 
lotus. 


The  waves  that  ride  on  his  mighty  tide 
Were  poured  from  the  urns  of  unvis- 

ited  mountains; 
And  their  sweets  of  the  South  mingle 

cool  in  the  mouth 

With   the   freshness   and  sparkle   of 
Northern  fountains. 
Again  and  again 
The  goblet  we  drain,  — 
Diviner  a  stream  never  Nereid  swam 
on : 

For  Isis  and  Or  us 
Have  quaffed  before  us, 
And  Ganymede  dipped  it  for  Jupiter 
Ammon. 


Its  blessing  he   pours   o'er  his  thirsty 

shores, 
And  floods  the  regions  of  Sleep  and 

Silence, 

When  he  makes  oases  in  desert  places, 
And  the  plain  is  a  sea,  the  hills  are 
islands. 

And  had  I  the  brave 
Anacreon's  stave, 

And    lips   like   the    honeved  lips   of 
Hylas, 

I  'd  dip  from  his  brink 
My  bacchanal  drink, 
And   sing  for  the   glory   of  ancient 
Nilus ! 


CAMADEVA. 

THE  sun,  the  moon,  the  mystic  planets 

seven, 

Shone  with  a  purer  and  serener  flame, 
A.nd  there  was  joy  on  Earth  and  joy  in 
Heaven 

When  Camadeva  came. 

fh.e  blossoms  burst,  like  jewels  of  the  air, 
.Jutting  the  colors  of  the  morn  to 
shame ; 


Breathing  their  odorous  secrets  every 
where 

When  Camadeva  came. 

The  birds,  upon  the  tufted  tamarind 

spray, 
Sat  side  by  side  and  cooed  in  amorous 

blame ; 

The  lion  sheathed  his  claws  and  left  his 
prey 

When  Camadeva  came. 

The  sea  slept,  pillowed  on  the  happy 

shore ; 
The  mountain-peaks  were  bathed  in 

rosy  flame ; 

The  clouds   went   down  the   sky,  —  to 
mount  no  more 

When  Camadeva  came. 

The  hearts  of  all  men  brightened  like 

the  morn  ; 
The  poet's  harp  then  first  deserved  its 

fame, 

For  rapture  sweeter  than  he  sang  was 
born 

When  Camadeva  came. 

All  breathing  life  a  newer  spirit  quaffed, 
A  second  life,  a  bliss  beyond  a  name, 
And  Death,  half-conquered,  dropped  hSgt 
idle  shaft 

When  Camadeva  came.' 


NUBIA. 

A  LAND  of  Dreams  and  Sleep,  —  a  pop 
pied  land ! 
With  skies  of  endless  calm  above   her 

head, 
The  drowsy  warmth  of  summer  noonday 

shed 
Upon  her  hills,  and   silence   stern  and 

grand 
Throughout  her  Desert's  temple-burying 

sand. 
Before  her  threshold,  in  their  ancient 

place, 

With  closed  lips,  and  fixed,  majestic  face, 
Noteless  of  Time,  her  dumb  colossi  stand. 
Oh,  pass  them  not  with  light,  irreverent 

tread ; 
Respect  the  dream  that  builds  her  fallen 

throne, 

And  soothes  her  to  oblivion  of  her  woe*. 
Hush  !  for  she  does  but  sleep ;  she  is  not 

dead : 


58 


POEMS    OF   THE   ORIENT. 


Action  and  Toil  have  made  the  world 

their  own, 
But  she  hath  built  an  altar  to  Repose. 

KILIMANDJARO. 


HAII    to    thee,    monarch    of    African 

mountains, 

Remote,  inaccessible,  silent,  and  lone,  — 
Who,  from  the  heart  of  the  tropical  fer 
vors, 

Liftest  to  henven  thine  alien  snows, 
Feeding  forever  the  fountains  that  make 

thee 
Father  of  Nile  and  Creator  of  Egypt ! 


The  years  of  the  world  are  engraved  on 

thy  forehead  ; 
Time's   morning-   blushed    red    on    thy 

first-fallen  snows ; 
Yet,  lost   in   the  wilderness,  nameless, 

unnoted, 
Of  Man  unheholden,  thou  wert  not  till 

now. 

Knowledge  alone  is  the  being-  of  Nature, 
Giving  a  soul  to  her  manifold  features, 
Lighting-  through  paths  of  the  primitive 

darkness 
The  footsteps  of  Truth  and  the  vision 

of  Song. 

Knowledge  has  born  thee  anew  to  Crea 
tion, 
And  long-baffled  Time  at  thy  baptism 

rejoices. 
Take,  then,  a  name,  and  be  filled  with 

existence, 

Yea,  be.  exultant  in  sovereign  glory,  ** 
While  from  the  hand  of  the  wandering 

poet 
Drops  the  first  garland  of  song  at  thy 

feet. 


Floating  alone,  on  the  flood  of  thy  mak 
ing. 

Through  Africa's  mystery,  silence,  and 
fire, 

Lo !  in  my  palm,  like  the  Eastern  en 
chanter, 

I  dip  from  the  waters  a  magical  mirror, 

A.nd  thou  art  revealed  to  my  purified 
vision. 

I  see  thee,  supreme  in  the  midst  of  thy 
co-mates, 


Standing  alone  V-vixt  the  Earth  and  the 
Heavens, 

Heir  of  the  Sunset  and  Herald  of  Morn. 

Zone  above  zone,  to  thy  shoulders  of 
granite, 

The  climates  of  Earth  are  displayed,  aa 
an  index, 

Giving  the  scope  of  the  Book  of  Crea 
tion. 

There,  in  the  gorges  that  widen,  de 
scending 

From  cloud  and  from  cold  into  summer 
eternal, 

Gather  tbe  threads  of  the  ice-gendered 
fountains, — 

Gather  to  riotous  torrents  of  crystal, 

And,  giving  each  shelvy  recess  where 
they  dally 

The  blooms  of  the  North  and  its  ever 
green  turfage, 

Leap  to  the  land  of  the  lion  and  lotus  ! 

There,  in  the  wondering  airs  of  the 
Tropics 

Shivers  the  Aspen,  still  dreaming  of 
cold  : 

There  stretches  the  Oak,  from  the  loft 
iest  ledges, 

His  arms  to  the  far-away  lands  of  bid 
brothers, 

And  the  Tine-tree*  looks  down  on  his 
rival,  the  Palm. 


Bathed  in  the  tenderest  purple  of  dis 
tance, 

Tinted  and  shadowed  by  pencils  of  air, 
Thy  battlements  hang  o'er  the  slopes 

and  the  forests, 

Seats  of  the  Gods  in  the  limitless  ether, 
Looming  sublimely  aloft  and  afar. 
Above    them,    like    folds    of    imperial 

ermine, 
Sparkle  the  snow-fields  that  furrow  thy 

forehead,  — 

Desolate  realms,  inaccessible,  silent, 
Chasms   and   caverns   where  Day   is  a 

stranger, 
Garners  where  storeth  his  treasures  the 

Thunder, 
The  Lightning  his  falchion,  his  arrows 

the  Hail ! 


Sovereign  Mountain,  thy  brothers  give 

welcome : 
They,  the  baptized  and  the  crowned  ol 

ages, 


THE   BIRTH   OF   THE   PROPHET. 


59 


Watcl  towers  of  Continents,  altars  of 
Earth, 

Welcome  thec  now  to  their  mighty  as 
sembly. 

Mont  Blanc,  in  the  roar  of  his  mad  ava 
lanches, 

Hails  thy  accession  ;  superb  Orizaba, 

Belted  with  beech  and  ensandalled  with 
palm  ; 

Chimborazo,  the  lord  of  the  regions  of 
noonday, — 

Mingle  their"  sounds  in  magnificent 
chorus 

With  greeting  august  from  the  Pillars 
of  Heaven, 

Who,  in  the  urns  of  the  Indian  Ganges 

Filter  the  snows  of  their  sacred  domin 
ions, 

Unmarked  with  a  footprint,  unseen  but 
of  God. 


Lo  !  unto  each  is  the  seal  of  his  lord 
ship, 

Nor  questioned  the  right  that  his  maj 
esty  give'-h  : 

Each  in  his  lawful  supremacy  forces 
Worship  and  reverence,  wonder  and  joy. 
Absolute  all,  yet  in  dignity  varied, 
None  has  a  claim  to' the  honors  of  story, 
Or  the  superior  splendors  of  song, 
Greater    than    thou,    in    thy    mystery 

mantled,  — 
Thou,   the   sole    monarch  of    African 

mountains, 
Father  of  Nile  and  Creator  of  Egypt ! 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  PROPHET. 

i. 

THRICE  three  moons  had  waxed  in 
heaven,  thrice  three  moons  had 
waned  away, 

Sines  Abdullah,  faint  and  thirsty,  on 
the  Desert)  bosom  lay 

In  the  fiery  la«j>  of  Summer,  the  meri 
dian  of  to?  clay  ;  — 


Sirce  from  nv\  the  sand  npgushing,  lo  ! 

a  sudden  fountain  leapt ; 
Sweet  as  musk  and  clear  as  amber,  to 

his  parching  lips  it  crept. 
When  he  drank  it  straightway  vanished, 

but  his  blood  its  virtue  kept. 


Ere  the  morn  his  forehead's  lustre,  signet 
of  the  Prophet's  line, 

To  the  beauty  of  Amina  had  trans 
ferred  its  flame  divine ; 

Of  the  germ  within  her  sleeping,  such 
the  consecrated  sign. 


And  with  every  moon  that  faded  waxed 
the  splendor  more  and  more, 

Till  Amina's  beauty  lightened  through 
the  matron  veil  she  wore, 

And  the  tent  was  filled  with  glory,  and 
of  Heaven  it  seemed  the  door. 


When  her  quickened  womb  its  burden 
had  matured,  and  Life  began 

Struggling  in  its  living  prison,  through 
the  wide  Creation  rang 

Premonitions  of  the  coming  of  a  God- 
appointed  man. 


For  the  oracles  of  Nature  recognize  a 
Prophet's  birth,  — 

Blossom  of  the  tardy  ages,  crowning 
type  of  human  worth,  — 

And  by  miracles  and  wonders  he  is  wel 
comed  to  the  Earth. 


Then  the  stars  in  heaven  grew  brighter, 

stooping    downward  from   their 

zones ; 
Wheeling  round  the  towers  of  Mecca, 

sang  the  moon  in  silver  tones, 
And  the  Kaaba's  grisly  idols  trembled 

on  their  granite  thrones. 


Mighty  arcs  of  rainbow  splendor,  pil 
lared  shafts  of  purple  fire, 

Split  the  sky  and  spanned  the  darkness, 
and  with  many  a  golden  spire, 

Beacon-like,  from  all  the  mountains 
streamed  the  larrbent  meteors 
hijrher. 


Bn;  when  first  the  breath  of  being  to 
the  sacred  infant  came, 


60 


DOEMS   OF    THE   ORIENT. 


Paled  the  pomp  of  airy  lustre,  and  the 
stars  grew  dim  with  shame, 

For  the  glory  of  his  countenance  out 
shone  their  feebler  flame. 


Over  Nedjid's  sands  it  lightened,  unto 

Oman's  coral  deep, 
Startling  all  the  gorgeous  regions  of  the 

Orient  from  sleep, 
Till,  a  sun  on  night  new-risen,  it  illumed 

tae  Indian  steep. 


They  who  dwelt  in  Mecca's  borders  saw 
the  distant  realms  appear 

All  around  the  vast  horizon,  shining 
marvellous  and  clear, 

From  the  gardens  of  Damascus  unto 
those  of  Bendemeer. 


From  the  colonnades  of  Tadmor  to  the 

hills  of  Hadramaut, 
Ancient   Araby  was   lighted,   and   her 

sands  the  splendor  caught, 
Till  the  magic  sweep  of  vision  overtook 

the  track  of  Thought. 


Such  on  Earth  the  wondrous  glory,  but 
beyond  the  sevenfold  skies 

God  His  mansions  filled  with  gladness, 
and  the  seraphs  saw  arise 

Palaces  of  pearl  and  ruby  from  the 
founts  of  Paradise. 


As  the  surge  of  heavenly  anthems  shook 
the  solemn  midnight  air, 

From  the  shrines  of  false  religions  came 
a  wailing  of  despair, 

And  the  fires  on  Pagan  altars  were  ex 
tinguished  everywhere. 


Mid  the  sounds  of  salutation,  'mid  the 

splendor  and  the  balm, 
Knelt  the  sacred  child,  proclaiming,  with 

a  brow  of  heavenly  calm  : 
*  God  is  God ;  there  is  none  other ;  I 

his  chosen  Prophet  am  ! " 


TO  THE  NILE. 

MYSTERIOUS  Flood,  —  that  through  the 

silent  sands 

Hast  wandered,  century  on  century, 
Watering  the  length  of  great  Egyptian 
lands, 

Which  were  not,  but  for  thee, — 

Art  thou  the  keeper  of  that  eldest  lore, 
Written  ere  yet  thy  hieroglyphs  began, 
When  dawned  upon  thy  fresh,  untram- 
pled  shore 

The  earliest  life  of  Man  ? 

Thou  guardest  temple  and  vast  pyramid, 
Where  the  gray  Past  records  its  an 
cient  speech ; 

But  in  thine  unrevealing  breast  lies  hid 
What  they  refuse  to  teach. 

All  other  streams  with  human  joys  and 

fears 

Run  blended,  o'er  the  plains  of  His 
tory  : 

Thou  tak'st  no  note  of  Man ;  a  thousand 
years 

Are  as  a  day  to  thee. 

What  were  to  thee  the  Osirian  festivals  ? 
Or  Memnon's  music  on  the  Theban 

plain  ? 

The  carnage,  when  Cambyses  made  thy 
halls 

Ruddy  with  royal  slain  ? 

Even  then  thou  wast  a  God,  and  shrines 

were  built 
For  worship  of   thine  own   majestic 

flood; 

For  thee  the  incense  burned,  —  for  thee 
was  spilt 

The  sacrificial  blood. 

And  past  the  bannered  pylons  that  arose 
Above  thy  palms,  the  pageantry  and 

state, 

Thy  current  flowed,  calmly  as  now  it 
flows, 

Unchangeable  as  Fate. 

Thou  givest  blessing  as  a  God  might  give. 
Whose  being  is  his  Bounty  :  from  the 

slime 

Shaken  from  off  thy  skirts  the  nations 
live, 

Through  all  the  years  of  Tima 


CHARMIAN. 


61 


In  thy  solemnity,  thine  awful  calm, 

Thy  grand  indifference  of  Destiny, 
My  soul  forgets  its  pain,  and  drinks  the 
balm 
Which  thou  dost  proffer  me. 

Thy  godship  is  unquestioned  still :  I  bring 
Ko  doubtful  worship  to  thy  shrine  su 
preme  ; 

But  thus  my  homage  as  a  chaplet  fling, 
To  float  upon  thy  stream  ! 


HASSAN  TO   HIS  MARE. 

COME,  my   beauty !    come,   my   desert 

darling ! 

On  my  shoulder  lay  thy  glossy  head  ! 
Fear  not,   though    the   barley-sack   be 

empty, 

Here 's  the  half  of  Hassan's  scanty 
bread. 

Thou  shalt  have  thy  share  of  dates,  my 

"Beauty ! 
An<?  thou  know'st  my  water-skin  is 

free  : 
Drink  and  welcome,  for  the  wells  are 

distant, 
And  my  strength  and  safety  lie  in  thee. 

Bend   thy  forehead  now,   to   take  my 

kisses  ! 

Lift  in  love  thy  dark  and  splendid  eye  : 
Thou  art  glad  when  Hassan  mounts  the 

saddle,  — 
Thou  art  proud  he  owns  thee :  so  am  I. 

Let  the  Sultan  bring  his  boasted  horses, 
Prancing  with  their  diamond-studded 

reins ; 
They,  my  darling,  shall  not  match  thy 

fleetness 

When  they  course  with  thee  the  des 
ert-plains  ! 

Let  the  Sultan  bring  his  famous  horses, 
Let  him  bring  his  golden  swords  to 

me, — 
Bring  his  slaves,  his  eunuchs,  and  his 

harem ; 
He  would  offer  them  in  vain  for  thee. 

We  have  seen  Damascus,  0  my  beauty  ! 

And  the  splendor  of  the  Pashas  there : 
WTiat  Js  their  pomp  and  riches  't  Why, 
I  would  not 

Take  them  for  a  handful  of  thy  hair  ! 


Khaled  sings  the  praises  of  his  mistress, 
And,  because  I  've  none,  he  pities  me  : 
What  care  I  if  he  should  have  a  thou 
sand, 

Fairer  than   the   morning?     /  have 
thee. 

He  will  find  his  passion  growing  cooler, 
Should  her  glance  on   other  suitors 

fall; 
Thou  wilt  ne'er,  my  mistress  and  my 

darling, 
Fail  to  answer  at  thy  master's  call. 

By  and  by  some  snow-white  Nedjid  stal 
lion 
Shall   to  thee  his   spring-time  ardor 

bring ; 

And  a  foal,  the  fairest  of  the  Desert, 
To  thy  milky  dugs  shall  crouch  and 
cling. 

Then,  when  Khaled  shows   to  me  his 

children, 
I  shall  laugh,  and  bid  him  look  at 

thine ; 

Thou  wilt  neigh,  and  lovingly  caress  me, 
With  thy  glossy  neck  laid   close  to 
mine. 


CHAEMIAN. 


0  DAUGHTER  of  the  Sun  ; 

Who  gave  the  keys  of  passion  unto  thee  1 
Who  taught  the  powerful  sorcery 
Wherein  my  soul,  too  willing  to  be  won, 
Still  feebly  struggles  to  be  free, 
But  more  than  half  undone  1 
Within  the  mirror  of  thine  eyes, 
Full   of  the  sleep  of  warm  Egyptian 

skies,  — 
The  sleep  of  lightning,  bound  in  airy 

spell, 
And  deadlier,  because  invisible,  — 

1  see  the  reflex  of  a  feeling 

Which  was  not,  till  I  looked  on  thee  : 
A  power,  involved  in  mystery, 
That  shrinks,  affrighted,  from  its  own 
revealing. 


Thou  sitt'st  in  stately  indolence, 

Too  calm  to  feel  a  breath  of  passion 

start 

The  listless  fibres  of  thy  sense, 
The  fiery  slumber  of  thy  heart 


62 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT. 


Thine  eyes  are  wells  of  darkness,  by  the 
veil 

Of  languid  lids  half-sealed  :  the  pale 

And  bloodless  olive  of  thy  face, 

And  the  full,  silent  lips  that  wear 

A  ripe  serenity  of  grace, 

Are  dark  beneath  the  shadow  of  thy 
hair. 

Not  from  the  brow  of  templed  Athor 
beams 

Such  tropic  warmth  along  the  path  of 
dreams ; 

Not  from  the  lips  of  horned  Isis  flows 

Such  sweetness  of  repose  ! 

For.  thou  art  Passion's  self,  a  goddess 
too, 

And  aught  but  worship  never  knew  ; 

And  thus  thy  glances,  calm  and  sure, 

Look  for  accustomed  homage,  and  be 
tray 

No  effort  to  assert  thy  sway  : 

Thou  deem'st  my  fealty  secure. 


0  Sorceress  !  those  looks  unseal 
The  undisturbed  mysteries  that  press 
Too  deep  in  nature  for  the  heart  to 

feel 

Their  terror  and  their  loveliness. 
Thine  eyes  are  torches  that  illume 
On  secret  shrines  their  unforeboded  fires, 
And  fill  the  vaults   of  silence  and  of 

gloom 
With  the  unresting  life  of  new  desires. 

1  follow  where  their  arrowy  ray 
Pierces  the  veil  I  would  not  tear  away, 
And  with  a  dread,  delicious  awe  behold 
Another  gate  of  life  unfold, 

Like  the  rapt  neophyte  who  sees 

Some  march  of  grand  Osirian  mysteries. 

The  startled  chambers  I  explore, 

And  every  entrance  open  lies, 

Forced  by  the  magic  thrill  that  runs  be 
fore 

Thy  slowly-lifted  eyes. 

I  tremble  to  the  centre  of  my  being 

Thus  to  confess  the  spirit's  poise  o'er- 
thrown, 

And  all  its  guiding  virtues  blown 

Like  leaves  before  the  whirlwind's  fury 
fleeing. 


Bat    see !    one    memory   rises    in    my 

soul, 
And,  beaming  steadily  and  clear, 


Scatters  the  lurid  thunder-clouds  that 
roll 

Through  Passion's  sultry  atmosphere. 

An  alchemy  more  potent  borrow 

For  thy  dark  eyes,  enticing  Sorcer 
ess  ! 

For  on  the  casket  of  a  sacred  Sor 
row 

Their  shafts  fall  powerless. 

Nay,  frown  not,  Athor,  from  thy  rnyptit 
shrine  : 

Strong  Goddess  of  Desire/  I  will  not 
be 

One  of  the  myriad  slaves  thou  callest 
thine, 

To  cast  my  manhood's  crown  of  roy 
alty 

Before  thy  dangerous  beauty :  I  am 
free ! 


SMYRNA. 

THE   "  Ornament    of    Asia "   and  the 

"  Crown 

Of  fair  Ionia."  Yea;  but  Asia  stands 
No  more  an  empress,  and  Ionia's  hands 
Have  lost  their  sceptre.  Thou,  majestic 

town, 

Art  as  a  diamond  on  a  faded  robe  : 
The  freshness  of  thy   beauty   scatters 

yet 
The  radiance  of  that   sun  of  Empire 

set, 
Whose  disk  sublime  illumed  the  ancient 

globe. 
Thou  sitt'st  between  the  mountains  and 

the  sea ; 
The   sea   and    mountains   flatter   thine 

array, 
And  fill  thy  courts  with  Grandeur,  not 

Decay  ; 
And  Power,  not  Death,  proclaims  thy 

cypress  tree. 
Through  thee,   the   sovereign   symbols 

Nature  lent 
Her  rise,  make  Asia's  fall  magnificent. 


TO  A  PERSIAN  BOY, 

IN    THE    BAZAAR   AT    SMYRNA. 

THE  gorgeous  blossoms  of  that  magic 

tree 
Beneath  whose  shade  I  sat  a  thousand 

nights, 


AURUM   POTABILE. 


63 


Breathed  from  their  opening  petals  all 

delights 

Embalmed  in  spice  of  Orient  Poesy, 
When  first,   young  Persian,   I   beheld 

thine  eyes, 

And  felt  the  wonder  of  thy  beauty  prow 
Within  my  brain,  as  some  fair  planet's 

glow 
Deepens,  and  fills  the  summer  evening 

skies. 
From  under  thy  dark  lashes  shone  on 

me 
The   rich,  voluptuous  soul  of  Eastern 

land, 
Impassioned,    tender,    calm,    serenely 

sad,  — 

Such  as  immortal  Hafiz  felt  when  he 
Sang  by  the  fountain-streams  of  Koc- 

nabad, 
Or  in  the  bowers  of  blissful  Samarcand. 


THE  ARAB  TO  THE  PALM. 

NKXT  to  thee,  0  fair  gazelle, 

0  Beddowee  girl,  beloved  so  well ; 

Next  to  the  fearless  Nedjidee, 
Whose  fleetness  shall  bear  me  again  to 
thee ; 

Next  to  ye  both  I  love  the  Palm, 
With  his  leaves  of  beauty,  his  fruit  of 
balm ; 

Next  to  ye  both  I  love  the  Tree 
Whose  fluttering  shadow  wraps  us  three 
With  love,  and  silence,  and  mystery  ! 

Our  tribe  is  many,  our  poets  vie 

With  any  under  the  Arab  sky  ; 

Yet  none  can  sing  of  the  Pal  in  but  I. 

The  marble  minarets  that  begem 

Cairo's  citadel-diadem 

Are  not  so  light  as  his  slender  stem. 

He  lifts   his  leaves   in  the   sunbeam's 

glance 
As    the    Almehs    lift    their    arms    in 

dance,  — 

A  slumtierous  motion,  a  passionate  sign, 
That  works  in  the  cells  of  the  blood  like 
wine. 

Full  of  passion  and  sorrow  is  he, 
dreaming  where  the  beloved  may  be. 


And  when  the  warm  south-winds  arise, 
He     breathes    his    longing    in    fervid 
sighs,  — 

Quickening  odors,  kisses  of  balm, 
That  drop  in  the  lap  of  his  chosen  palin. 

The  sun  may  flame  and  the  sands  may 

stir, 
But  the  breath  of   his  passion  reache* 

her. 

0  Tree  of  Love,  by  that  love  of  thine, 
Teach  me  how  I  shall  soften  mine  ! 

Give  me  the  secret  of  the  sun, 
Whereby  the  wooed  is  ever  won ! 

If  I  were  a  King,  O  stately  Tree, 
A  likeness,  glorious  as  might  be, 
In  the  court  of   my  palace  I  'd  build 
for  thee ! 

With  a  shaft  of  silver,  burnished  bright, 
And  leaves  of  beryl  and  malachite; 

With  spikes  of  golden  bloom  ablaze, 
And  fruits  of  topaz  and  chrysoprase  : 

And  there  the  poets,  in  thy  praise, 
Should  night  and  morning  frame  new 
lays,  — 

New  measures  sung  to  tunes  divine  ; 
But  none,  O  Palm,  should  equal  mine  ! 


AURUM  POTABILE. 


BROTHER  Bards  of  every  region,  — 
Brother  Bards,  (your  name  is  Legion! ) 
Were  you  with  me  while  the  twilight 
Darkens  up  my  pine-tree  skylight,  — 
Were  you  gathered,  representing 

Every  land  beneath  the  sun, 
Oh,  what  songs  would  be  indited, 
Ere  the  earliest  star  is  lighted, 
To  the  praise  of  vino  d'oro, 

On  the  Hills  of  Lebanon  ! 


Yes ;  while  all  alone  I  quaff  its  _ 
Lucid  gold,  and  brightly  laugh  its 
Topaz  waves  and  amber  bubbles, 
Still  the  thought  my  pleasure  troublee, 
That  I  quaff 'it  all  alone. 


34 


POEMS   OF  THE   ORIENT. 


Oh  for  Hafiz,  —  glorious  Persian  ! 
Keats,  with  buoyant,  gay  diversion 
Mocking  Schiller's  grave  immersion  ; 

Oh  for  wreathed  Anacreon ! 
Yet  enough  to  have  the  living,  — 
They,  the  few,  the  rapture-giving ! 
(Blessed  more  than  in  receiving,) 
Fate,  that  frowns  when  laurels  wreathe 

them, 

Once  the  solace  might  bequeath  them, 
Once  to  taste  of  vino  d'oro 

On  the  Hills  of  Lebanon  ! 


Lebanon,  thou  mount  of  story, 
Well  we  know  thy  sturdy  glory, 

Since  the  days  of  Solomon; 
Well  we  know  the  Five  old  Cedars, 
Scarred  by  ages,  —  silent  pleaders, 
Preaching,  in  their  gray  sedateness, 
Of  thy  forest's  fallen  greatness, 
Of  the  vessels  of  the  Tyriau, 
And  the  palaces  Assyrian, 
And  the  temple  on  Moriah 

To  the  High  and  Holy  One  !    - 
Know  the  wealth  of  thy  appointment,  - 
Myrrh  and  aloes,  gum  and  ointment ; 
But  we  knew  not,  till  we  clomb  thee, 
Of  the  nectar  dropping  from  thee,  — 
Of  the  pure,  pellucid  Ophir 
In  the  cups  of  vino  d'oro, 

On  the  Hills  of  Lebanon  ! 


We  have  drunk,  and  we  have  eaten, 
Where  Egyptian  sheaves  are  beaten  ; 
Tasted  Judith's  milk  and  honey 
On  his  mountains,  bare  and  sunny ; 
Drained  ambrosial  bowls,  that  ask  us 
Never  more  to  leave  Damascus ; 
And  have  sung  a,  vintage  pawn 
To  the  grapes  of  isles  ^Egean, 
And  the  flasks  of  Orvieto, 

liipened  in  the  Roman  sun: 
But  the  liquor  here  surpasses 
All  that  beams  in  earthly  glasses. 
'T  is  of  this  that  Paracelsus 
(His  elixir  vitas)  tells  us, 
That  to  happier  shores  can  float  us 
Than  Lethean  stems  of  lotus, 
And  the  vigor  of  the  morning    • 

Straight  restores  when  day  is  done. 
Then,  before  the  sunset  waneth, 
While  the  rosy  tide,  that  staiueth 
Earth,  and  sky,  and  sea,  remaineth, 
We  will  take  the  fortune  proffered,  — 


Ne'er  again  to  be  re-offered, 
We  will  drink  of  vino  d'oro, 

On  the  Hills  of  Lebanon  ! 
Vino  d'oro  !  vino  d'oro  !  — 

Golden  blood  of  Lebanon  ! 


ON  THE  SEA. 

THE  splendor  of  the  sinking  moon 

Deserts  the  silent  bay  ; 
The  mountain-isles  loom  large  and  faints 

Folded  in  shadows  gray, 
And  the  lights  of  land  are  setting  stars 

That  soon  will  pass  away. 

0  boatman,  cease  thy  mellow  song ! 

O  minstrel,  drop  thy  lyre  ! 
Let  us  hear  the  voice  of  the  midnight 

sea, 

Let  us  speak  as  the  waves  inspire, 
While  the   plashy  dip   of  the  languid 

oar 
Is  a  Burrow  of  silver  fire. 

Day  cannot  make  thee  half  so  fair, 
Nor  the  stars  of  eve  so  dear  : 

The  arms  that  clasp  and  the  breast  that 

keeps, 
They  tell  me  thou  art  near, 

And  the  perfect  beauty  of  thy  face 
In  thy  murmured  words  I  hear. 

The  lights  of  land  have  dropped  below 
The  vast  and  glimmering  sea ; 

The  world  we  leave  is  a  tale  that  «a 

told,— 
A  fable,  that  cannot  be. 

There  is  no  life  in  the  sphcry  dark 
But  the  love  in  thee  and  me  ! 


TYRE. 


THE  wild  an  1  windy  morning  is  lit  with 

lurid  fire ; 
The  thundering  surf  of  ocean  beats  on 

the  rocks  of  Tyre,  — 
Beats  on  the  fallen  columns  and  round 

the  headland  roars, 
And  hurls  its  foamy  volume  along  the 

hollow  shores, 
And    calls   with    hungry   clamor,    that 

speaks  its  long  desire  : 
"  Where  are  the  ships  of  Tarshish,  the 

mighty  ships  of  Tyre  *  " 


L  ENVOI. 


65 


Within  her  cunning  harbor,  choked  with 
invading  sand, 

No  galleys  bring  their  freightage,  the 
spoils  of  every  land, 

And  like  a  prostrate  forest,  when  au 
tumn  gales  have  blown, 

Her  colonnades  of  granite  lie  shattered 
and  o'erthrown ; 

And  from  the  reef  the  pharos  no  longer 
flings  its  fire, 

To  beacon  home  from  Tarshish  the 
lordly  ships  of  Tyre. 


Where  is  thy  rod  of  empire,  once  mighty 

on  the  waves,  — 
Thou  that  thyself   exalted,  till  Kings 

became  thy  slaves  ? 
Thou  that  didst  speak  to  nations,  and 

saw  thy  will  obeyed,  — 
Whose  favor  made  them  joyful,  whose 

anger  sore  afraid,  — 
Who  laid'st  thy  deep  foundations,  and 

thought  them  strong  and  sure, 
And  boasted  midst  the  waters,  Shall  I 

not  aye  endure  ? 


Where  is  the  wealth  of  ages  that  heaped 
thy  princely  mart  ? 

The  pomp  of  purple  trappings ;  the 
gems  of  Syrian  art ; 

The  silken  goats  of  Kedar ;  Sabaea's 
spicy  store ; 

The  tributes  of  the  islands  thy  squad 
rons  homeward  bore, 

When  in  thy  gates  triumphant  they 
entered  from  the  sea 

With  sound  of  horn  and  sackbut,  of 
harp  and  psaltery  1 


Howl,  howl,  ye  ships  of  Tarshish  !  the 

glory  is  laid  waste  : 
There  is  no  habitation ;  the  mansions 

are  defaced. 
No    mariners    of    Sidon    unfurl    your 

mighty  sails ; 
No  workmen  fell  the  fir-trees  that  grow 

in  Shenir's  vales 
And   Bashan's    oaks    that    boasted    a 

thousand  years  of  sun, 
Or   hew  the  masts  of  cedar  on  frosty 

Lebanon. 

5 


Rise,  thou  forgotten  harlot !  take  np  thy 

harp  and  sing : 
Call  the  rebellious  islands  to  own  their 

ancient  king  : 
Bare  to  the  spray  thy  bosom,  and  with 

thy  hair  unbound, 
Sit  on  the  piles  of  ruin,  thou  throneless 

and  discrowned  ! 
There  mix  thy  voice  of  wailing  with  the 

thunders  of  the  sea, 
And  sing  thy  songs  of  sorrow,  that  thou 

remembered  be ! 


Though  silent  and  forgotten,  yet  Nature 

still  laments 
The  pomp  and  power  departed,  the  lost 

magnificence : 
The  hills  were  proud  to  see  thee,  and 

they  are  sadder  now  ; 
The  sea  was  proud  to  bear  thee,  and 

wears  a  troubled  brow, 
And  evermore  the  surges   chant  forth 

their  vain  desire : 
"  Where  are  the  ships  of  Tarshish,  the 

mighty  ships  of  Tyre  ?  " 


AN  ANSWER. 

You  call  me  cold :  you  wonder  why 
The  marble  of  a  mien  like  mine 

Gives  fiery  sparks  of  Poesy, 

Or  softens  at  Love's  touch  divine. 

Go,  look  on  Nature,  you  will  find 
It  is  the  rock  that  feels  the  sun  : 

But  you  are  blind,  • — and  to  the  blind 
The  touch  of  ice  and  fire  is  one. 


L'ENVOI. 

UNTO  the  Desert  and  the  Desert  steed 
Farewell !    The  journey  is  completed 

now : 
Struck  are  the  tents  of  Ishmael's  wan- 

deriug  breed, 

And  I  unwind  the  turban  from  my 
brow. 

The  sun  has  ceased  to  shine ;  the  palms 

that  bent, 

Inebriate    with    light,    have    disap 
peared  ; 


66 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT. 


And  naught  is  left  me  of  the  Orient 
But  the  tanned  bosom,  and  the  un 
shorn  beard. 

Yet  from  that  life  my  blood  a  glow"  re 
tains, 
As   the   red  sunshine    in    the  ruby 

glows ; 
These  songs  are  echoes  of  its  fiercer 

strains,  — 

Dreams,  that  recall  ita  passion  and 
repose. 

I  found,  among  those  Children  of  the 

Sun, 

The  cipher  of  my  nature,  —  the  re 
lease 
Of  baffled  powers,  which  else  had  never 

won 

That  free  fulfilment,  whose  reward  is 
peace. 

For  not  to  any  race  or  any  clime 
Is  the  completed  sphere  of  life  re 
vealed  ; 

He  who  would  make  his  own  that  round 
sublime. 


Must  pitch  his  tent  on  many  a  distant 
field. 

Upon  his  home  a  dawning  lustre  beams, 
But  through  the  world  he  walks  to 

open  day, 
Gathering  from  every  land  the  prisinal 

gleams, 

Which,  when  united,  form  the  perfect 
ray. 

Go,  therefore,  Songs  !  —  which  in  the 

East  were  born 
And  drew  your  nurture  —  from  your 

sire's  control  : 
Haply  to   wander  through  the   West 

forlorn, 

Or  find  a  shelter  in    some    Orient 
soul. 

And  if  the  temper  of  our  colder  sky 
Less  warmth  of  passion  and  of  speech 

demands, 
They  are  the  blossoms  of  my  life, — 

and  I 

Have  ripened  in   the  suns  of  many 
lands. 


ROMANCES  AND  LYKICS. 


90 

GEOKGE  H.  BOKER. 

To  you  the  homage  of  this  book  I  bring. 

The  earliest  and  the  latest  flowers  I  yield, 

And  though  their  hues  betray  a  barren  field, 
t  know  you  will  not  slight  the  offering. 
You  were  the  mate  of  my  poetic  spring  ; 

To  you  its  buds  of  little  worth  concealed 

More  than  the  summer  years  have  since  revealed, 
Or  doubtful  autumn  from  the  stem  shall  fling. 

But  here  they  are,  the  buds,  the  blossoms  blown  ; 
If  rich  or  scant,  the  wreath  is  at  your  feet ; 

And  though  it  were  the  freshest  ever  grown, 
To  you  its  incense  could  not  be  more  sweet, 

Since  with  it  goes  a  love  to  match  your  own, 
A  heart,  dear  Friend,  that  never  falsely  beat. 


KOMANCES  AKD  LYEICS. 


PORPHYEOGENITUS. 


BOHN  in  the  purple !  born  in  the  purple  ! 

Heir  to  the  sceptre  and  crown  ! 
Lord  over  millions  and  millions  of  vas 
sals,  — 

Monarch  of  mighty  renown  ! 
Where,   do  you   ask,  are   my   banner- 
proud  castles  ? 
Where  my  imperial  town  ? 


Where  are  the  ranks  of  my  far-flashing 

lances,  — 

Trumpets,  courageous  of  sound,  — 
Galloping  squadrons  and    rocking   ar 
madas, 

Guarding  my  kingdom  around? 
Where  are  the  pillars  that  blazon  my 

borders, 
Threatening  the  alien  ground  f 


\ainly  you  ask,  if  you  wear  not  the 

purple, 

Sceptre  and  diadem  own  ; 
Ruling,   yourself,  over  prosperous   re 
gions. 

Seated  supreme  on  your  throne. 
Subjects  have  nothing  to  give  but  alle 
giance  : 
Mouarchs  meet  monarchs  alone. 


But,  if  a  king,  you  shall  stand  on  my 
ramparts, 

Look  on  the  lands  that  I  sway, 
Number  the  domes  of  magnificent  cities, 

Shining  in  valleys  away,  — 


Number  the  mountains  whose  foreheads 

are  golden, 
Lakes  that  are  azure  with  day. 


Whence  I  inherited  such  a  dominion  ? 

What  was  my  forefathers'  line  ? 
Homer    and     Sophocles,    Pindar    and 

Sappho, 

First  were  anointed  divine : 
Theirs   were    the   realms   that   a    god 

might  have  governed, 
Ah,  and  how  little  is  mine  ! 

Ti. 

Hafiz  in  Orient  shared  with  Petrarca 
Thrones    of    the    East    and    the 

West ; 

Shakespeare  succeeded  to  limitless  em 
pire, 

Greatest  of  monarchs,  and  best : 
Few    of    his    children   inherited   king 
doms, 
Provinces  only,  the  rest. 


Keats  has  hia  vineyards,  and  Shelley 

his  islands  ; 

Coleridge  in  Xanadu  reigns  ; 
Wordsworth  is  eyried  aloft  on  the  mount 
ains, 

Goethe  has  mountains  and  plains ; 
Yet,  though  the  world  has  been  par 
celled  among  them, 
A  world  to  be  parcelled  remains. 

VIII. 

Blessing    enough  to    be  born    in    the 

purple, 
Though  but  a  monaich  in  name,  — 


70 


ROMANCES   AND   LYRICS. 


Though    in    the   desert   my  palace  is 

builded, 

Far  from  the  highways  of  Fame  : 
Up  with  my  standards  !  salute  me  with 

trumpets  ! 
Crown  me  with  regal  acclaim  ! 


METEMPSYCHOSIS   OF  THE 
PINE. 

As  when  the  haze  of  some  wan  moon 
light  makes 

Familiar  fields  a  land  of  mystery, 
Where,  chill  and  strange,  a  ghostly  pres 
ence  wakes 
In  flower,  and  bush,  and  tree,  — 

Another  life, the  life  of  Day  o'erwhelms ; 
The  Past  from  present  consciousness 

takes  hue, 
And   we   remember   vast    and    cloudy 

realms 
Our  feet  have  wandered  through : 

So,  oft,  some   moonlight  of   the  mind 

makes  dumb 
The  stir  of  outer  thought :  wide  open 

seems 

The  gate  wherethrough  strange  sympa 
thies  have  come, 
The  secret  of  our  dreams  ; 

The  source  of  fine  impressions,  shooting 

deep 
Below  the   failing  plummet   of    the 

sense ; 

Which  strike  beyond  all  Time,  and  back 
ward  sweep 
Through  all  intelligence. 

\\  e  touch  the  lower  life  of  beast  and 

clod, 

And  the  long  process  of  the  ages  see 
From  blind  old  Chaos,  ere  the  breath  of 

God 
Moved  it  to  harmony. 

All    outward    wisdom    yields    to    that 

.  within, 
Whereof  nor  creed  nor  canon  holds 

the  key ; 

We  only  fee!  that  we  have  ever  been, 
And  evsrmore  shall  be. 

And  thus  I  know,  by  memories  unfurled 
In  rarer  moods,  and  many  a  nameless 
sign, 


That  once  in  Time,  and  somewhere  in 

the  world, 
I  was  a  towering  Pine, 

Eooted  upon  a  cape  that  ovei.iung 
The  entrance  to  a  mountain  gorge ; 

whereon 
The   wintry    shadow  of    a    peak    was 

flung, 
Long  after  rise  of  sun. 

Behind,  the  silent  snows;  and  wide  be 
low, 
The  rounded  hills  made  level,  letsen- 

iug  down 
To  where  a  river  washed  with  sluggish 

flow 
A  many-templed  town. 

There  did  I  clutch  the  granite  with  firm 

feet, 
There  shake   my  boughs   above   the 

roaring  gulf, 
When  mountain  whirlwinds  through  the 

passes  beat, 
And  howled  the  mountain  wolf. 

There  did  I  louder  sing  than  all  the 

floods 
Whirled    in   white    foam    above   the 

precipice, 
And  the  sharp  sleet  that  stung  the  naked 

woods 
Answer  with  sullen  hiss : 

But  when  the  peaceful  clouds  rose  white 

and  high 
On    blandest    airs    that   April    skies 

could  bring, 

Through  all  my  fibres  thrilled  the  ten 
der  sigh, 
The  sweet  unrest  of  Spring. 

She,  with  warm  fingers  laced  in  mine, 

did  melt 
In    fragrant    balsam    my    reluctant 

blood  ; 
And  with  a  smart   of  keen  delight  I 

felt 
The  sap  in  every  bud, 

And  tingled  through  my  rough  old  bark, 

and  fast 
Pushed  out  the  younger  green,  that 

smoothed  my  tones, 
When  last  year's  needles  to  the  wind  I 

cast, 
And  slicd  my  scaly  cones. 


METEMPSYCHOSIS    OF   THE  PINE. 


71 


[  held  the  eagle  till  the  mountain  mist 
llolled  from  the  azure  paths  lie  came 

to  soar, 

And  like  a  hunter,  on  my  gnarled  wrist 
The  dappled  falcon  bore. 

Poised  o'er  the  blue  abyss,  the  morning 

lark 

Sang,  wheeling  near  in  rapturous  ca 
rouse  ; 
And  hart  and  hind,  soft-pacing  through 

the  dark, 
Slept  underneath  my  boughs. 

Down  on  the  pasture  slopes  the  herds 
man  lay, 

And  for  the  flock  his  birchen  trumpet 
blew ; 

There  ruddy  children  tumbled  in  their 

play, 

And  lovers  came  to  woo. 

And  once  an  army,  crowned  with  tri 
umph,  came 

Out  of  the  hollow  bosom  of  the  gorge, 
With  mighty  banners  in  the  wind  aflame, 
Borne  on  a  glittering  surge 

Of  tossing  spears,  a  flood  that  homeward 

rolled, 
While  cymbals  timed  their  steps  of 

victory, 
And  horn  and  clarion  from  their  throats 

of  gold 
Sang  with  a  savage  glee. 

I   felt   the   mountain   walls   below  me 

shake, 
Vibrant  with  sound,  and  through  my 

branches  poured 
The  glorious  gust :  my  song  thereto  did 

make 
Magnificent  accord. 

Some  blind   harmonic  instinct  pierced 

the  rind 
Of   that  slow  life  which  made   me 

straight  and  high, 

And  I  became  a  harp  for  every  wind, 
A  voice  for  every  sky ; 

When  fierce  autumnal  gales  began  to 

blow, 
Roaring  all   day  in   concert    hoarse 

and  deep ; 
And  then  made  silent  with  my  weight 

of  snow  — 
A  spectre  on  the  steep ; 


Filled  with  a  whispering  gush,  like  that 

which  flows 
Through  organ-stops,  when  sank  the 

sun's  red  disk 

Beyond  the  city,  and  in  blackness  rose 
Temple  and  obelisk ; 

Or  breathing  soft,  as  one  who  sighs  in 

prayer, 
Mysterious  sounds  of  portent  and  of 

might, 
What  time  I  felt  the  wandering  ware* 

of  air 
Pulsating  through  the  night. 

And  thus  for   centuries   my  rhythmic 

chant 
Rolled   down   the   gorge,   or  surged 

about  the  hill  : 

Gentle,  or  stern,  or  sad,  or  jubilant, 
At  every  season's  will. 

No   longer   Memory   whispers   whence 

arose 
The  doom  that  tore  me  from  my  place 

of  pride  : 
Whether  the  storms  that  load  the  peak 

with  snows, 
And  start  the  mountain-slide, 

Let    fall    a    fiery  bolt    to    smite    my 

top, 
Upwrenched  my  roots,  and  o'er  the 

precipice 
Hurled  me,  a  dangling  wreck,  erelong 

to  drop 
Into  the  wild  abyss ; 

Or  whether  hands  of  men,  with  scorn 
ful  strength 
And    force    from    Nature's    rugged 

armory  lent, 
Sawed  through  my  heart  and  rolled  my 

tumbling  length 
Sheer  down  the  steep  descent. 

All  sense  departed,  with  the  boughs  I 

wore ; 
And  though   I   moved   with  mighty 

gales  at  strife, 

A  mast  upon  the  seas,  I  sang  no  more, 
And  music  was  my  life. 

Yet  still  that  life  awakens,  brings  again 

Its  airy  anthems,  resonant  and  IOIIL;-, 
Till  Earth  and  Sky,  transfigured,  fill  my 

brain 
With  rhythmic  sweeps  of  song. 


72 


ROMANCES  AND  LYRICS. 


Thence  am  I  made  a  poet :  thence  are 

sprung 
Those  shadowy  motions  of  the  soul, 

that  reach 
Beyond  all  grasp  of  Art,  —  for  which 

the  tongue 
Is  ignorant  of  speech. 

And  if  some  wild,  -full-gathered  har 
mony 
Eoll  its  unbroken  music  through  my 

line, 
There     lives    and    murmurs,     faintly 

though  it  be, 
The  Spirit  of  the  Pine. 


THE   VINEYAKD-SAINT. 

SHE,  pacing  down  the  vineyard  walks, 
Put  back  the  branches,  one  by  one, 

Stripped  the  dry  foliage  from  the  stalks, 
And  gave  their  bunches  to  the  sun. 

On  fairer  hillsides,  looking  south, 
The  vines  were  brown  with  cankerous 

rust, 

The  earth  was  hot  with  summer  drouth, 
And  all  the  grapes  were  dim  with 
dust. 

Yet  here  some  ble.ssed  influence  rained 
From     kinder     skies,     the     season 
through ; 

On  every  bunch  the  bloom  remained, 
And  every  leaf  was  washed  in  dew. 

I  saw  her  blue  eyes,  clear  and  calm ; 

I  saw  the  aureole  of  her  hair  ; 
k  heard  her  chant  some  unknown  psalm, 

In  triumph  half,  and  half  in  prayer. 

''  Hail,  maiden  of  the  vines  ! "  I  cried : 
"  Hail,  Oread  of  the  purple  hill ! 

For  vineyard  faum  too  fair  a  bride, 
For  me  thy  cup  of  welcome  fill ! 

"  Unlatch  the  wicket ;  let  me  in, 
And,  sharing,   make  thy   toil   more 
dear : 

No  riper  vintage  holds  the  bin 

Than  that  our  feet  shall  trample  here. 

*  Beneath  thy  beauty's  light  I  glow, 
As  in  the  sun  those  grapes  of  thine  : 

Touch  thou  my  heart  with  love,  and 

lo ! 
The  foaming  must  is  turned  to  wine !  " 


She,  pausing,  stayed  her  careful  task, 
And,  lifting  eyes  of  steady  ray, 

Blew,  as  a  wind  the  mountain's  mask 
Of  mist,  my  cloudy  words  away. 

No  troubled  flush  o'erran  her  cheek ; 

But  when  her  quiet  lips  did  stir, 
My  heart  knelt  down  to  hear  her  speak 

And  mine  the  blush  I  sought  in  her. 

"  Oh,  not  for  me,"  she  said,  "  the  vow 
So  lightly  breathed,  to  break  erelong 

The  vintage-garland  on  the  brow  ; 
The  revels  of  the  dancing  throng  ! 

"  To  maiden  love  I  shut  my  heart, 
Yet  none  the  less  a  stainless  bride ; 

I  work  alone,  I  dwell  apart, 
Because  my  work  is  sanctified. 

"A  virgin  hand  must  tend  the  vine, 
By  virgin  feet  the  vat  be  trod, 

Whose  consecrated  gush  of  wine 
Becomes  the  blessed  blood  of  God ! 

"  No  sinful  purple  here  shall  stain, 
Nor  juice  profane  these  grapes  afford ; 

But  reverent  lips  their  sweetness  drain 
Around  the  Table  of  the  Lord. 

"  The  cup  I  fill,  of  chaster  gold, 
Upon  the  lighted  altar  stands; 

There,  when  the  gates  of  heaven  unfold, 
The  priest  exalts  it  in  his  hands. 

"  The  censer  yields  adoring  breath, 
The  awful  anthem  sinks  and  dies, 

While  God,  who  suffered  life  and  death, 
Renews  His  ancient  sacrifice. 

"  0  sacred  garden  of  the  vine  ! 

And  blessed  she,  ordained  to  press 
God's  chosen  vintage,  for  the  wine 

Of  pardon  and  of  holiness  !  " 


HYLAS. 

STORM-WEAKIED  Argo  slept  upon  the 

water. 
No  cloud  was  seen :  on  blue  and  craggy 

to&J 

Ida 
The  hot  noon  lay,  and  on  the  plain's 

enamel  ; 
Cool,  in  his  bed,  alone,  the  swift   Sc» 

mander. 
"  Why  should  I  haste  ?  "  said  young  and 

rosy  Hylas : 


HYLAS. 


"  The  seas  were  rough,  and  long  the 
way  from  Colchis. 

Beneath  the  snow-white  awning  slum 
bers  Jason, 

Pillowed  upon  his  tame  Thessalian  pan 
ther  ; 

The  shields  are  piled,  the  listless  oars 
suspended 

On  the  black  thwarts,  and  all  the  hairy 
bondsmen 

Doze  on  the  benches.  They  may  wait 
for  water, 

Till  I  have  bathed  in  mountain-born 
Scamander." 

So  said,   unfilleting    his    purple  chla- 

mys, 
And  putting  down  his  urn,  he  stood  a 

moment, 
Breathing  the  faiat,  warm  odor  of  the 

blossoms 
That  spangled  thick  the  lovely  Dardan 

meadows. 
Then,  stooping  lightly,  loosened  he  his 

buskins, 
And  felt  with  shrinking  feet  the  crispy 

verdure, 
Naked,  save  one  light   robe  that  from 

his  shoulder 
Hung  to  his  knee,  the  youthful  flush 

revealing 
Of  warm,  white  limbs,  half-nerved  with 

coming  manhood, 
Yet  fair  and  smooth  with  tenderness  of 

beauty. 
Now  to  the  river's  sandy  marge  advanc- 

Jig, 
He  dropped  the  robe,  and  raised  his 

head  exulting 
In  the  clear  sunshine,  that  with  beam 

embracing 
Held    him    against    Apollo's    glowing 

bosom. 

For  sacred  to  Latona's  son  is  Beauty, 
Sacred  is  Youth,  the  joy  of  youthful 

feeling. 

A.  joy  indeed,  a  living  joy,  was  Hylas, 
Whence   Jove-begotten    Heracles,    the 

mighty, 
To  men   though  terrible,  to  him  was 

gentle, 
Smoothing    his    rugged    nature    into 

laughter 
When  the  boy  stole  his  club,  or  from 

his  shoulders 
Dragged  the  huge  paws  of  the  Nemsean 

lion. 


The  thick,  brown  locks,  tossed  back 
ward  from  his  forehead, 

Fell  s-vft  about  his  temples  ;  manhood's 
blossom 

Not  yet  had  sprouted  on  his  chin,  but 
freshly 

Curved  the  fair  Cheek,  and  full  the  ^ed 
lips,  parting, 

Like  a  loose  bow,  that  just  has  launched 
its  arrow. 

His  large  blue  eyes,  with  joy  dilate  and 
beamy, 

Were  clear  as  the  unshadowed  Grecian 
heaven ; 

Dewy  and  sleek  his  dimpled  shoulders 
rounded 

To  the  white  arms  and  whiter  breast 
between  them. 

Downward,  the  supple  lines  had  less  of 
softness : 

His  back  was  like  a  god's;  his  loins 
were  moulded 

As  if  some  pulse  of  power  began  to 
waken  ; 

The  springy  fulness  of  his  thighs,  out- 
swerving, 

Sloped  to  his  knee,  and,  lightly  drop 
ping  downward, 

Drew  the  curved  lines  that  breathe,  '.z. 
rest,  of  motion. 

He   saw   his  g^rious  limbs   reversely 

mirrored 
In  the  still  wave,  and  stretched  his  foot 

to  press  it 
On  the  smooth  sole  that  answered   at 

the  surface  : 

Alas !  the  shape  dissolved  in  glimmer 
ing  fragments. 
Then,  timidly  at  first,  he  dipped,  and 

catching 
Quick  breath,  with  tingling  shudder,  as 

the  waters 
Swirled  round  his  thighs,  and  deeper, 

slowly  deeper, 
Till  on  his  breast  the  Eiver's  cheek  was 

pillowed, 
And  deeper  still,  till  every  shoreward 

ripple 
Talked  in  his  ear,  and  like  a  cygnet's 

bosom 
His  white,   round  shoulder    shed    the 

dripping  crystal. 
There,  as  he  floated,  with  a  rapturous 

motion, 
The  lucid  coolness  folding  close  around 

him, 


ROMANCES   AND   LYRICS. 


The  lily-cradling    ripples    murmured, 

"  Hylas ! " 
He  shook  from  off  his  ears  the  hyacin- 

thine 
Curls,  that  had  lain  unwet   upon  the 

water, 
And  still  the  ripples  murmured, "  Hylas ! 

Hylas ! " 

He  thought :  "  The  voices  are  but  ear- 
born  music. 
Pan  dwells  not  here,  and  Echo  still  is 

calling 
From  some  high  cliff  that  tops  a  Thra- 

cian  valley : 
So  long  mine  ears,  on  tumbling  Helles- 

pontus, 
Have   heard    the    sea  waves    hammer 

Argo's  forehead, 

That  I  misdeem  the  fluting  of  this  cur 
rent 
For  some  lost  nymph  —  "     Again  the 

murmur,  "  Hylas  !  " 
And  with  the  sound  a  cold,  smooth  arm 

around  him 
Slid  like  a  wave,  and  down  the  clear, 

green  darkness 
Glimmered    on  either  side   a   shining 

bosom,  — 
Glimmered,   uprising   slow  ;   and  ever 

closer 
Wound  the  cold  arms,  till,  climbing  to 

his  shoulders, 

Their  cheeks  luy  nestled,  while  the  pur 
ple  tangles 
Their  loose  hair  made,  in  silken  mesh 

enwound  him. 
Their  eyes  of  clear,  pale  emerald  then 

uplifting, 
They  kissed  his  neck  with  lips  of  humid 

coral, 
And  once  again  there  came  a  murmur, 

"  Hylas ! 
Oh,  come  with  us !     Oh,  follow  where 

we  wander 

Deep  down  beneath  the  green,  translu 
cent  ceiling,  — 
Where  on  the  sandy   bed  of  old   Sca- 

mander 
With  cool   white   buds  we  braid  our 

purple  tresses, 
Lulled  by  the  bubbling  waves  around  us 

stealing ! 
Thou  fair  Greek  boy,  Oh,  come  with  us  ! 

Oh,  follow 
Where  thou  no  more  shalt  hear  Propon- 

tis  riot, 
But  by  our  arms  be  lapped  in  endless 

quiet, 


Within  the  glimmering  caves  of  Ocean 
hollow ! 

We  have  no  love ;  alone,  of  all  the  Im 
mortals, 

We  have  no  love.  Oh,  love  us,  we  who 
press  thee 

With  faithful  arms,  though  cold,  — 
whose  lips  caress  thee,  — 

Who  hold  thy  beauty  prisoned  !  Love 
us,  Hylas ! " 

The  boy  grew  chill  to  feel  their  twining 

pressure 
Lock   round  his  limbs,  and  bear  him, 

vainly  striving, 
Down   from   the    noonday   brightness. 

"  Leave  me,  Naiads  ! 
Leave  me  !  "  he  cried ;  "  the  day  to  me 

is  dearer 
Than  all  your  caves  deep-sphered  in 

Ocean's  quiet. 

I  am  but  mortal,  seek  but  mortal  pleas 
ure  : 
I  would  not  change  this  flexile,  warm 

existence, 
Though  swept  by  storms,  and  shocked 

by  Jove's  dread  thunder, 
To  be  a  kiug  beneath  the  dark-green 

waters." 
Still  moaned  the  humid  lips,  between 

their  kisses, 
"  We  have   no  love.     Oh,  love  us,  we 

who  love  thee  !  " 
And  came  in  answer,  thus,  the  words  of 

Hylas  t 
"My  love  is  mortal.     For  the  Argivo 

maidens 
I  keep  the  kisses  which  your  lips  would 

ravish. 
Unlock  your  cold  white  arms, — take 

from  my  shoulder 
The  tangled  swell  of  your  bewildering 

tresses. 
Let  me  return  :  the  wind  comes  down 

from  Ida, 
And  soon  the  galley,  stirring  from  her 

slumber, 
Will  fret  to  ride  where  Pelion's  twilight 

shadow 
Falls  o'er  the  towers  of  Jason's  sea-girt 

city. 

I  am  not  yours,  —  I  cannot  braid  the  lilies 
In  your  wet  hair,  nor  on  your  argent 

bosoms 
Close  my  drowsed   eyes   to   hear  your 

rippling  voices. 
Hateful  to  me  your  sweet,  cold,  crystal 

being,  — 


KUBLEH. 


75 


Sour  world  of  watery  quiet.  Help, 
Apollo ! 

For  I  am  thine  :  thy  fire,  thy  beam,  thy 
music, 

Danco  in  my  heart  and  flood  my  sense 
with  rapture  ! 

The  joy,  the  warmth  and  passion  now 
awaken, 

Promised  by  thee,  but  erewhile  calmly 
sleeping. 

Oh,  leave  me,  Naiads !  loose  your  chill 
embraces, 

Or  I  shall  die,  for  mortal  maidens  pin 
ing." 

But  still  with  unrelenting  arms  they 
bound  him, 

And  still,  accordant,  flowed  their  watery 
voices : 

"We  have  thee  now,  —  we  hold  thy 
beauty  prisoned ; 

Oh,  come  with  us  beneath  the  emerald 
waters ! 

We  have  no  love  :  we  have  thee,  rosy 
Hylas. 

Oh,  love  us,  who  shall  nevermore  release 
thee : 

Love  us,  whose  milky  arms  will  be  thy 
cradle 

Far  down  on  the  untroubled  sands  of 
ocean, 

Where  now  we  bear  thee,  clasped  in  our 
embraces." 

And  slowly,  slowly  sank  the  amorous 
Naiads ; 

The  boy's  blue  eyes,  upturned,  looked 
through  the  water, 

Pleading  for  help ;  but  Heaven's  im 
mortal  Archer 

Was  swathed  in  cloud.    The  ripples  hid 

his  forehead, 

4>nd  last,  the  thick,  bright  curls  a  mo 
ment  floated, 

So  warm  and  silky  that  the  stream  up 
bore  them, 

Closing  reluctant,  as  he  sank  forever. 

The  sunset  died  behind  the  crags  of  Im- 
bros. 

Argo  was  tugging  at  her  chain ;  for 
freshly 

Blew  the  swift  breeze,  and  leaped  the 
restless  billows. 

Flie  voice  of  Jason  roused  the  dozing 
sailors, 

And  up  the  mast  was  heaved  the  snowy 
canvas. 

But  mighty  Heracles,  the  Jove-begot 
ten, 


Unmindful  stood,  beside  the  cool  Sca- 
mander, 

Leaning  upon  his  club.  A  purple  chla- 
mys 

Tossed  o'er  an  urn  was  all  that  lay  be 
fore  him  : 

And  when  he  called,  expectant,  "  Hy- 
*  las!  Hylas!" 

The  empty  echoes  made  him  answer, — 
"Hylas!" 


KUBLEH: 

A    STOEY   OF    THE   A83YEIAN   DESERT. 

THE  black-eyed  children  of  the  Desert 
drove 

Their  flocks  together  at  the  set  of 
sun. 

The  tents  were  pitched ;  the  weary  cam 
els  bent 

Their  suppliant  necks,  and  knelt  upon 
the  sand ; 

The  hunters  quartered  by  the  kindled 
fires 

The  wild  boars  of  the  Tigris  they  had 
slain, 

And  all  the  stir  and  sound  of  evening 
ran 

Throughout  the  Shammar  camp.  The 
duwy  air 

Bore  its  full  burden  of  confused  delight 

Across  the  flowery  plain;  and  while, 
afar, 

The  snows  of  Koordish  Mountains  ic 
the  ray 

Flashed  roseate  amber,  Nimroud's  an 
cient  mound 

Hose  broad  and  black  against  the  burn 
ing  West. 

The  shadows  deepened,  and  the  stars 
came  out, 

Sparkling  in  violet  ether  ;  one  by  one 

Glimmered  the  ruddy  camp-fires  on  tha 
plain, 

And  shapes  of  steed  and  horseman 
moved  among 

The  dusky  tents,  with  shout  and  jostling 
cry, 

And  neigh  and  restless  prancing.  Chil 
dren  ran 

To  hold  the  thongs,  while  every  rider 
drove 

His  quivering  spear  in  the  earth,  and  by 
his  door 

Tethered  the  horse  he  loved.  In  midst 
of  all 


76 


ROMANCES   AND   LYRICS. 


Stood  Shammeriyah,  whom  they  dared 

not  touch,  — 
The  foal  of  wondrous  Kubleh,  to  the 

Shekh 
A  dearer  wealth  than  all  his  Georgian 

girls. 

But  when  their  meal  was  o'er,  —  when 

the  red  fires 
Blazed  brighter,  and  the  dogs  no  longer 

bayed, — 
When  Shammar  hunters  with  the  boys 

sat  down 
To  cleanse  their  bloody  knives,  came 

Alimar, 
The  poet  of  the  tribe,  whose  songs  of 

love 

Are    sweeter    than    Bassora's    nightin 
gales,  — 
Whose  songs  of  war  can  fire  the  Arab 

blood 

Like  war  itself :  who  know?  not  Alimar  1 
Then  asked  the  men,  ''  <J  Poet,  sing  of 

Kubleh!" 
And    boys    laid    down    the    burnished 

knives  and  said, 
"  Tell  us  of   Kubleh,  whom  we  never 

saw,  — 
Of  wondrous  Kubleh  !  "     Closer  drew 

the  group, 

With  eager  eyes,  about  the  flickering  fire, 
While   Alimar,   beneath    the  Assyrian 

stars, 
Sang  to  the  listening  Arabs  : 

"  God  is  great ! 

O  Arabs  !  never  since  Mohammed  rode 
The  sands  of  Beder,  and   by  Mecca's 

gate 
That  winged  steed  bestrode,  whose  mane 

of  fire 
Blazed  up  the  zenith,  when,  by  Allah 

called, 
He  bore  the   Prophet   to  the  walls  of 

Heaven, 
Was  like  to  Kubleh,  Sofuk's  wondrous 

mare  : 
Not  all  the  milk-white  barbs,  whose  hoofs 

dashed  flame, 
In  Baghdad's  stables,  from  the  marble 

floor,  — 
Who,    swathed     in    purple    housings, 

pranced  in  state 
The  gay  bazaars,  by  great  Al-Raschid 

backed  : 

Not  the  wild  charger  of  Mongolian  breed 
That   went  o'er  half    the   world  with 

Tamerlane : 


Nor  yet  those  flying  coursers,  long  ago 

From  Ormuz  brought  by  swarthy  In 
dian  grooms 

To  Persia's  kings,  — the  foals  of  sacred 
mares, 

Sired  by  the  fiery  stallions  of  the  sea  ! 

"  Who  ever  told,  in  all  the  Desert  Land, 
The  many  deeds  of  Kubleh  1    Who  cau 

tell 
Whence   came   she  1    whence   her  like 

shall  come  again  1 

0  Arabs !  sweet  as  tales  of  Scheherazade 
Heard  in  the  camp,  when  javelin  shafts 

are  tried 

On  the  hot  eve  of  battle,  are  the  words 
That  tell  the  marvels  of  her  history. 

"  Far  in  the  Southern  sands,  the  huntera 
say, 

Did  Sofuk  find  her,  by  a  lonely  palm. 

The  well  had  dried ;  her  fierce,  impa 
tient  eye 

Glared  red  and  sunken,  and  her  slight 
young  limbs 

Were  lean  with  thirst.  He  checked  his 
camel's  pace, 

And,  while  it  knelt,  untied  the  water- 
skin, 

And  when  the  wild  mare  drank,  she 
followed  him. 

Thence  none  but  Sofuk  might  the  sad 
dle  gird 

Upon  her  back,  or  clasp  the  brazen  gear 

About  her  shining  head,  that  brooked 
no  curb 

From  even  him ;  for  she,  alike,  was 
royal. 

"  Her  form  was  lighter,  in  its  shifting 

grace, 
Than  some  impassioned  almeh's,  when 

the  dance 
Unbinds  her  scarf,  and  golden  anklets 

gleam, 

Through  floating  drapery,  on  the  buoy 
ant  air. 

Her  light,  free  head  was  ever  held  aloft ; 
Between   her  slender  and   transparent 

ears 
The  silken  forelock  tossed  ;  her  nostril's 

arch, 
Thin-blown,  in  proud  and  pliant  beauty 

spread 
Snuffing  the  desert  winds.     Her  glossy 

neck 
Curved  to  the  shoulder  like  an  eagle'i 

wing, 


KUBLEH. 


77 


And  «11  Aer  matchless  lines  of  flank  and 

limb 
Seemed  fashioned  from  the  flying  shapes 

of  air. 
When    sounds  of  warlike   preparation 

rang 
From  tent  to  tent,  her  keen  and  restless 

eye 
Shone   blood-rel  as   a  ruby,  and  her 

neigh 
Rang  wild  and  sharp  above  the  clash 

of  spears. 

"The  tribes  of  Tigris  and  the  Desert 

knew  her : 

•  Sofuk  before  the  Shammar  bands  she 
bore 

To  meet  the  dread  Jebours,  who  waited 
not 

To  bid  her  welcome ;  and  the  savage 
Koord, 

Chased  from  his  bold  irruption  on  the 
plain, 

Has  seen  her  hoof-prints  in  his  mount 
ain  snow. 

Lithe  as  the  dark-eyed  Syrian  gazelle, 

O'er  ledge,  and  chasm,  and  barren  steep 
amid 

The  Sinjar-hills,  she  ran  the  wild  ass 
down. 

Through  many  a  battle's  thickest  brunt 
she  stormed, 

Reeking  with  sweat  and  dust,  and  fet 
lock  deep 

In  curdling  gore.  When  hot  and  lurid 
haze 

Stifled  the  crimson  sun,  she  swept  be 
fore 

The  whirling  sand-spout,  till  her  gusty 
mane 

Flared  in  its  vortex,  while  the  camels 
lay 

Groaning  and  helpless  on  the  fiery 
waste. 

"  The  tribes  of  Taurus  and  the  Caspian 
knew  her : 

The  Georgian  chiefs  have  heard  her 
trumpet  neigh 

Before  the  walls  of  Tiflis ;  pines  that 
grow 

On  ancient  Caucasus  have  harbored 
her, 

Bleeping  by  Sofuk  in  their  spicy  gloom. 

The  surf  of  Trebizond  has  bathed  her 
flanks, 

When  from  the  shore  she  saw  the  white- 
sailed  bark 


That   brought  him  home  from   Stam- 

boul.     Never  yet, 
O  Arabs!   never  yet  was  like  to  Ku- 

bleh  f 

"  And  Sofuk  loved  her.    She  was  more 

to  him 

Than  all  his  snowy-bosomed  odalisques. 
For  many  years   she  stood  beside  his 

tent, 
The  glory  of  the  tribe. 

"  At  last  she  died, — 
Died,  while  the  fire  was  yet  in  all  her 

limbs,  — 
Died  for  the  life  of  Sofuk,  whom  she 

loved. 
The  base  Jebours,  —  on  whom  be  Allah's 

curse !  — 
Came  on  his  path,  when  far  from  any 

camp, 
And  would   have  slain  him,  but   that 

Kuhleh  sprang 
Against   the  javelin   points,  and  bore 

them  down, 
And  gained  the  open  Desert.    Wounded 

sore, 
She  urged  her  light  limbs  into  madden- 


And  made  the  wind  a  laggard.      On 

and  on 

The  red  sand  slid  beneath  her,  and  be 
hind 

Whirled  in  a  swift  and  cloudy  turbu 
lence, 
As  when  some  star  of  Eblis,  downward 

hurled 
By  Allah's  bolt,  sweeps  with  its  burning 

hair 
The  waste  of  darkness.     On  and  on  the 

bleak, 
Bare  ridges  rose  before  her,  came,  and 

passed, 

And  every  flying  leap  with  fresher  blood 
Her  nostrils  stained,  till  Sofuk's  brow 

and  breast 
Were  flecked  with  crimson  foam.     He 

would  have  turned 
To  save  his  treasure,  though  himself 

were  lost, 
But  Kubleh  fiercely  snapped  the  brazen 

rein. 
At  last,  when  throngh  her  spent  and 

quivering  frame 
Tie  sharp   throes  ran,  our  clustering 

tents  arose, 
And  with  a  neigh,  whose  shrill  access 

of  joy 


T8 


EOMANCES   AND   LYRICS. 


Overcame  ils  agony,  she  stopped   and 

fell. 
The  Shammar  men  came  round  her  as 

she  lay, 
And  Sofuk  raised  her  head,  and  held  it 

close 
Against  his  breast.     Her  dull  and  glaz- 


Met  his,  and  with  a  shuddering  gasp 

she  died. 
Then  like   a  child   his   bursting  grief 

made  way 
In  passionate  tears,  and  with  him  all 

the  tribe 
Wept  for  the  faithful  mare. 

"  They  dug  her  grave 
Amid  El-Hather's  marbles,  where  she 

lies 
Buried  with  ancient  kings ;  and  since 

that  time 

Was  never  seen,  and  will  not  be  again, 
0  Arabs !  though  the  world  be  doomed 

to  live 
As  many  moons  as  count  the  desert 

sands, 
The  like  of  glorious  Kubleh.     God  is 

great ! " 


MON-DA-MIN ; 

OK,   THE    ROMANCE    OF    MAIZE. 
I. 

LONG  ere  the  shores  of  green  America 
Were   touched   by  men   of  Norse  and 

Saxon  blood, 

What  time  the  Continent  in  silence  lay, 
A  solemn  realm  of  forest  and  of  flood, 
Where  Nature  wantoned  wild  in  zones 

immense, 
Unconscious  of  her  own  magnificence ; 


Then  to  the  savage  race,  who  knew  no 
world 

Beyond  the  hunter's  lodge,  the  council- 
fire, 

The  clouds  of  grosser  sense  were  some 
times  furled, 

&nd  spirits  came  to  answer  their  de 
sire,  — 

The  spirits  of  the  race,  grotesque  and 
shy ; 

Exaggerated  powers  of  earth  and  sky. 


For  Gods  resemble  whom  they  govern  : 
they, 

The  fathers  of  the  soil,  may  not  outgrow 

The  children's  vision.  In  that  earlier 
day, 

They  stooped  the  race  familiarly  to 
know; 

From  Heaven's  blue  prairies  they  de 
scended  then, 

And  took  the  shapes  and  shared  the  lives 
of  men. 


A  chief  there  was,  who  in  the  frequent 
stress 

Of  want,  yet  in  contentment,  lived  hia 
days ; 

His  lodge  was  built  within  the  wilder 
ness 

Of  Huron,  clasping  those  transparent 
bays, 

Those  deeps  of  unimagined  crystal, 
where 

The  bark  canoe  seems  hung  in  middle 


There,  from  the  lake  and  from  the  un 
certain  chase 

With  patient  heart  his  sustenance  he 
drew; 

And  he  was  glad  to  see,  in  that  wild 
place, 

The  sons  and  daughters  that  around 
him  grew, 

Although  more  scant  they  made  hia 
scanty  store, 

And  in  the  winter  moons  his  need  was 


The  eldest  was  a  boy,  a  silent  lad, 
Who  wore  a  look  of  wisdom  from  hia 

birth; 
Such  beauty,  both  of  form  and  face,  he 

'    had, 

As  until  then  was  never  known  on  earth  : 
And  so  he  was  (his  soul  so  bright  and 

far!) 
Osseo  named,  —  Son   of  the  Evening 

Star. 


This  boy  by  nature  was  companionless  • 
His  soul  drew  nurture  only   when  it 
sucked 


MON-DA-MIN. 


79 


The  savage  dugs  of  Fable ;  he  could  guess 
The  knowledge  other  minds  but  slowly 

plucked 
From  out  the  heart  of  things ;  to  him, 

as  well 
As  to  his  Gods,  all  thiugs  were  possible. 


The  heroes  of  that  shapeless  faith  of  his 
Took   life  from   him :   when   gusts  of 

powdery  snow 
Whirled  round  the  lodge,  he  saw  Paup- 

puckewiss 
Floundering   amid  the   drifts,   and  he 

would  go 
Climbing  the  hills,  while  sunset  faded 

wan, 
To  seek  the  feathers  of  the  Rosy  Swan. 


He  knew  the  lord  of  serpent  and  of 
beast, 

The  crafty  Incarnation  of  the  North  ; 

He  knew,  when  airs  grew  warm  and 
buds  increased, 

The  sky  was  pierced,  the  Summer  is 
sued  forth, 

And  when  a  cloud  concealed  some 
mountain's  crest 

The  Bird  of  Thunder  brooded  on  his 
nest. 


Through  Huron's  mists  he  saw  the  en 
chanted  boat 

Of  old  Mishosha  to  his  island  go, 

And  oft  he  watched,  if  on  the  waves 
might  float, 

As  once,  the  Fiery  Plume  of  Wassamo ; 

And  when  the  moourise  flooded  coast 
and  bay, 

He  climbed  the  headland,  stretching  far 
away ; 


For  there  —  so  ran  the  legend  —  nightly 

came 
The  small   Puck-wudjees,  ignorant  of 

harm : 
The  friends  of  Man,  in  many  a  sportive 

game 
The  nimble  elves  consoled  them  for  the 

charm 
VVhich    kept   them    exiled  from  their 

homes  afar,  — 
The  silver  lodges  of  a  twilight  star. 


So  grew  Osseo,  as  a  lonely  pine, 
That  knows   the  secret  of  the  wander 
ing  breeze, 

And  ever  sings  its  canticles  divine, 
Uncomprehended  by  the  other  trees  : 
And  now  the  time  drew  nigh,  when  he 

began 
The  solemn  fast  whose  issue  proves  the 


His  father  built  a  lodge  the  wood  within, 
Where  he  the  appointed  space  should 

duly  bide, 

Till  such  propitious  time  as  he  had  been 
By  faith  prepared,  by  fasting  purified, 
And  in  mysterious  dreams  allowed  to 

see 
What   God  the  guardian  of    his  life 

would  be. 


The  anxious  crisis  of  the  Spring  was 
past, 

And  warmth  was  master  o'er  the  linger 
ing  cold. 

The  alder's  catkins  dropped ;  the  maple 
cast 

His  crimson  bloom,  the  willow's  downy 
gold 

Blew  wide,  and  softer  than  a  squirrel's 
ear 

The  white  oak's  foxy  leaves  began  ap 
pear. 


There  was  a  motion  in  the  soil.    A  sound 
Lighter  than  falling  seeds,  shook  out  of 

flowers, 
Exhaled  where  dead  leaves,  sodden  on 

the  ground, 
Repressed  the  eager  grass ;   and  there 

for  hours 

Osseo  lay,  and  vainly  strove  to  bring 
Into  his  mind  the  miracle  of  Spring. 


The  wood-birds  knew  it,  and  their  voices 
rang 

Around  his  lodge;  with  many  a  dart 
and  whir 

Of  saucy  joy,  the  shrewish  catbird  sang 

Full-throated,  and  he  heard  the  king 
fisher, 


80 


ROMANCES   AND   LYRICS. 


Who  from  his  God  escaped  with  rum 
pled  crest, 

And  the  white  medal  hanging  on  his 
breast. 


The  aquilegia  sprinkled  on  the  rocks 

A  scarlet  rain ;  the  yellow  violet 

Sat   in   the   chariot  of  its  leaves;  the 

phlox 
Held  spikes  of  purple  flame  in  meadows 

wet, 
And  all  the  streams  with  vernal-scented 

reed 
Were  fringed,  and  streaky  bells  of  mis- 

kodeed. 


The  boy  went  musing :  What  are  these, 

that  burst 
The  sod  and  grow,  without  the  aid  of 

man1? 
What  father  brought  them  food  ?  what 

mother  nursed 
Them  in  her  earthy  lodge,  till  Spring 

began  ? 
They  cannot  speak ;  they  move  but  with 

the  air  ; 
Yet  souls  of  evil  or  of  good  they  bear. 


How  are  they  made,  that  some  with 
wholesome  juice 

Delight  the  tongue,  and  some  are 
charged  with  death  ? 

If  spirits  them  inhabit,  they  can  loose 

Their  shape  sometimes,  and  talk  with 
human  breath : 

Would  that  in  dreams  one  such  would 
come  to  me, 

And  thence  my  teacher  and  my  guar 
dian  be  ! 


fco,  when  more  languid  with  his  fast, 
the  boy 

Kept  to  his  lodge,  he  pondered  much 
thereon, 

And  other  memories  gave  his  mind  em 
ploy; 

Memories  of  winters  when  the  moose 
were  gone,  — 

VVhen  tales  of  Manabozo  failed  to  melt 

The  hunger-pang  his  pining  brothers 
fete. 


He  thought :  The  Mighty  Spirit  know« 
all  things, 

Is  master  over  all.    Could  He  not  choose 

Design  his  children  food  to  ease  the 
stings 

Of  hunger,  when  the  lake  and  wood  re 
fuse  ? 

If  He  will  bless  me  with  the  knowl 
edge,  I 

Will  for  my  brothers  fast  until  I  die. 


Four  days  were  sped  since  he  had  tasted 

meat ; 

Too  faint  he  was  to  wander  any  more, 
When  from  the  open  sky,  that,  blue  and 

sweet, 
Looked  in  upon  him  through  the  lodge's 

door, 

With  quiet  gladness  he  beheld  a  fair 
Celestial  Shape  descending  through  the 


He  fell  serenely,  as  a  winged  seed 
Detached  in  summer  from  the   maple 

bough ; 
His  glittering  clothes  unruffled  by  the 

speed, 
The    tufted    plumes    unshaken   on   his 

brow : 
Bright,  wonderful,  he  came  without  a 

sound, 
And  like  a  burst  of  sunshine  struck  the 

ground. 


So  light  he  stood,  so  tall  and  straight  of 

limb, 

So  fair  the  heavenly  freshness  of  his  face, 
With  beating  heart  Osseo  looked  at  him, 
For  now  a  God  had  visited  the  place. 
More  brave  a  God  his  dreams  had  never 

seen : 
The  stranger's  garments  were  a  shining 

green. 


Sheathing  his  limbs  in  many  a  stately 

fold, 
That,  parting  on  his  breast,  allowed  the 

eye 

To  note  beneath,  his  vest  of  scaly  gold. 
Whereon  the  drops  of  slaughter,  scarcely 

dry, 


MON-DA-MIN. 
stain  :     his 


81 


Disclosed    their    blushing 

shoulders  fair 
Gave  to  r.he  wind  long  tufts  of  silky  hair. 


The  plumy  crest,  that  high  and  beauti 
ful 

Above  his  head  its  branching  tassels 
hung, 

Shook  down  a  golden  dust,  while,  fixing 
full 

His  eyes  upon  the  boy,  he  loosed  his 
tongue. 

Deep  in  his  soul  Ossco  did  rejoice 

To  hear  the  reedy  music  of  his  voice : 


"  By  the  Great  Spirit  I  am  hither  sent, 
He  knows  the  wishes  whereupon  you 

feed, — 
The  soul,  that,  on  your  brothers'  good 

intent, 
Would  sink  ambition  to   relieve   their 

need  : 
This  thing  is  grateful  to  the  Master's 

eye, 
Nor  will  His  wisdom  what  you  seek 

deny. 


"  But  blessings  are  not  free ;  they  do 
not  fall 

In  listless  hands ;  by  toil  the  soul  must 
prove 

Its  steadfast  purpose  master  over  all, 

Before  their  wings  in  pomp  of  coming 
move  : 

Here,  wrestling  with  me,  must  you  over 
come, 

In  me,  the  secret,  —  else,  my  lips  are 
dumb." 


No  match  for  his,  Osseo's  limbs  ap 
peared, 

Weak  with  the  fast ;  and  yet  in  soul  he 
grew 

Composed  and  resolute,  by  accents 
cheered, 

That  spake  in  light  what  he  but  darkly 
knew. 

He  rose,  unto  the  issue  nerved ;  he 
sent 

into  his  arms  the  hope  of  the  event. 


The  shining  stranger  wrestled  long  and 
hard, 

When,  disengaging  weary  limbs,  he 
said : 

"  It  is  enough;  with  no  unkind  regard 

The  Master's  eye  your  toil  hath  vis 
ited. 

He  bids  me  cease  ;  to-day  let  strife  re» 
main  ; 

But  on  the  morrow  I  will  come  again." 


And  on  the  morrow  came  he  as  before, 

Dropping  serenely  down  the  deep-blue 
air: 

More  weak  and  languid  was  the  boy, 
yet  more 

Courageous  he,  that  crowning  test  to 
bear. 

His  soul  so  wrought  in  every  fainting 
limb, 

It  seemed  the  cruel  fast  had  strength 
ened  him. 


Again  they  grappled,  and  their  sinews 
wrung 

In  desperate  emulation  ;  and  again 

Came  words  of  comfort  from  the  stran 
ger's  tongue 

When  they  had  ceased.     He  scaled  the 

heavenly  plain, 

^lis  tall,  bright  stature  lessening  as  he 
rose, 

Till  lost  amid  the  infinite  repose. 


On  the  third  day  descending  as  before, 
His  raiment's  gleam  surprised  the  silent 

sky ; 
And  weaker  still  the  poor  boy  felt,  yet 

more 

Courageous  he,  and  resolute  to  die, 
So  he  might  first  the  promised  good 

embrace, 
And  leave  a  blessing  unto  all  his  race. 


This  time  with  intertwining  limbs  they 

strove  ; 
The  God's  green  mantle  shook  in  every 

fold, 


82 


ROMANCES   AND   LYRICS. 


And  o'er  Ossco's  heated  forehead  drove 
His  silky  hair,  his  tassel's  dusty  gold, 
Till,  spent  and   breathless,  he  at  last 

forbore, 
And  sat  to  rest  beside  the  lodge's  door. 


"  My  friend,"  he  said,  "  the  issue  now 
is  plain ; 

Who  wrestles  in  his  soul  must  victor 
be; 

Who  bids  his  life  in  payment  shall 
attain 

The  end  he  seeks,  —  and  you  will  van 
quish  me. 

Then,  these  commands  fulfilling,  you 
shall  win 

What  the  Great  Spirit  gives  in  Mon-da- 
Min. 


"  When  I  am  dead,  strip  off  this  green 

array, 
And  pluck  the  tassels  from  my  shrivelled 

hair ; 
Then  bury  me  where  summer  rains  shall 

play 
Above  my  breast,  and  sunshine  linger 

there. 
Remove  the  matted  sod;   for  I  would 

have 
The  earth  lie  lightly,  softly  on  my  grave. 


"  And  tend  the  place,  lest  any  noxious 

weed 
Through  the  sweet  soil  should  strike  its 

bitter  root ; 

Nor  let  the  blossoms  of  the  forest  breed, 
Nor  the  wild  grass  iu  green  luxuriance 

shoot ; 
But  when  the  earth  is  dry  and  blistered, 

fold 
Thereon  the  fresh  and  dainty-smelling 

mould. 


'  The  clamoring  crow,  the  blackbird 
swarms  that  make 

The  meadow  trees  their  hive,  must 
come  not  near : 

Scare  thence  all  hurtful  things  ;  nor 
quite  forsake 

four  careful  watch  until  the  woods  ap 
pear 


With  crimson   blotches  deeply  dashed 

and  crossed,  — 
Sign  of  the  fatal  pestilence  of  Frost. 


"  This  done,  the  secret,  into  knowledge 

grown, 
Is  yours  forevermore."     With  that,  he 

took 

The  yielding  air.     Osse'o,  left  alone, 
Followed  his  flight  with  hope-enraptured 

look. 
The   pains  of    hunger  fled;  a  happy 

flame 
Danced  in  his  heart  until  the  trial  came. 


It  happened  so,  as  Mon-da-Min  foretold  ; 
Osse'o 's  sou],  at  every  wreathing  twist 
Of  palpitating  muscle,  grew  more  bold, 
And  from  the  limbs  of  his  antagonist 
Celestial  vigor  to  his  own  he  drew, 
Till  with   one   mighty  heave   he  over 
threw. 


Then  from  the  body,  beautiful  and  cold, 
He  stripped  the  shining  clothes ;  but  on 

his  breast 

He  left  the  vest,  engrained  with  blush 
ing  gold, 

And  covered  him  in  decent  burial-rest. 
At  sunset  to  his  father's  lodge  he  passed, 
And  soothed  with  meat  the  anguish  of 
his  fast. 


Naught  did  he  speak  of  all  that  he  had 

done 

But  day  by  day  in  secrecy  he  sought 
An  opening  in  the  forest,  where  the  sun 
Warmed  the  new  grave  :  so  tenderly  he 

wrought, 

So  lightly  heaped  the  mould,  so  care 
fully 

Kept  all  the  place  from  choking  herb 
age  free, 


That  in  a  little  while  a  folded  plume 
Pushed  timidly  the  covering  soil  aside, 
And,    fed    by    fattening    rains,    took 

broader  room, 
Until  it  grew  a'  stalk,  and  rustled  wide 


THE  SOLDIER  AND  THE  PARD. 


83 


Its  leafy  garments,  lifting  in  the  air 
Its  tasselled  top,  and  knots  of  silky  hair. 


Osse'o  marvelled  to  behold  his  friend 
In  this  fair  plant ;  the  secret  of  the  Spring 
Was  his  at  length ;  and  till  the  Sum 
mer's  end 
He  guarded  him  from  every  harmful 

thing. 
He   scared    the    cloud    of    blackbirds, 

wheeling  low ; 

His    arrow  pierced   the    reconnoitring 
crow. 


Now  came  the  brilliant  mornings,  kind- 

liug  all 

The  woody  hills  with  pinnacles  of  fire; 
The  gum's  ensanguined  leaves  began  to 

fall, 

The  buckeye  blazed  in  prodigal  attire, 
And  frosty  vapors  left  the  lake  at  night 
To  string  the  prairie  grass  with  spangles 

white. 


One  day,  from  long  and   unsuccessful 

chase 
The  chief  returned.     Ossco  through  the 

wood 

In  silence  led  him  to  the  guarded  place, 
Where  now  the  plant  in  golden  ripeness 

stood. 
"  Behold,  my  father !  "   he  exclaimed, 

"  our  friend, 
Whom  the  Great  Spirit  unto  me  did 

send, 


"  Then,  when  I  fasted,  and  my  prayer 
He  knew, 

That  He  would  save  my  brothers  from 
their  want ; 

For  this,  His  messenger  I  overthrew, 

And  from  his  grave  was  born  this  glori 
ous  plant. 

'T  is  Mon-da-Min  :  his  sheathing  husks 
enclose 

Food  for  my  brothers  in  the  time  of 
snows. 


*  I  leave  you  now,  my  father !  Here  be 
fits 

Vie  longer  not  to  dwell.  My  pathway 
lies 


To  where  the  West-wind  on  the  mount 
ain  sits, 

And  the  Red  Swan  beyond  the  sunset 
flies : 

There  may  superior  wisdom  be  in 
store." 

And  so  he  went,  and  he  returned  no 
more. 

XLIX. 

But  Mon-da-Min  remained,  and  still  re 
mains  ; 

His  children  cover  all  the  boundless 
land, 

And  the  warm  sun  and  frequent  mellow 
rains 

Shape  the  tall  stalks  and  make  the 
leaves  expand. 

A  mighty  army  they  have  grown :  he 
drills 

Their  green  battalions  on  the  summer 
hills. 


And  when  the  silky  hair  hangs  crisp 

and  dead, 
Then  leave   their   rustling   ranks    the 

tasselled  peers, 
In  broad  encampment  pitch  their  tenta 

instead, 

And  garner  up  the  ripe  autumnal  ears  : 
The   annual  storehouse   of  a  nation's 

need, 
From  whose  abundance  all   the  world 

may  feed. 


THE  SOLDIER  AND  THE  PARD. 

A  SECOND  deluge  !  Well,  —  no  matter  : 

here, 

At  least,  is  better  shelter  than  the  lean, 
Sharp-elbowed  oaks, — a  dismal   com 
pany  ! 
That  stood  around  us  in  the  mountain 

road 
When  that  cursed  axle  broke  :  a  roof  of 

thatch, 
A  fire  of  withered  boughs,  and  best  of 

all, 
This    ruddy  wine   of  Languedoc,  that 

warms 
One  through  and  through,  from  heart 

to  finger-ends. 

No  better  quarters  for  a  stormy  night 
A  soldier,  like  myself,  could  ask ;  and 

since 


84 


ROMANCES   AND   LYRICS. 


The   rough  Cevennes  refuse  to  let  us 

forth, 

Why,  fellow-travellers,  if  so  you  will, 
I  '11  tell  the  story  cut  KO  rudely  short 
When  both  fore-wheels  broke  from  the 

diligenee, 
Stocked  in  the  rut,  and  pitched  us  all 

together : 

I  said,  we  fought  beside  the  Pyramids  ; 
And  somehow,  from   the  glow  of  this 

good  wine, 
And  from  the  gloomy  rain,  that  shuts 

one  in 
With    his    own    self,  —  a   sorry  mate 

sometimes  !  — 
The  scene   comes   back   like  life.    As 

then,  I  feel 
The  sun,  and  breathe  the  hot  Egyptian 

air, 

Hear  Kleber,  see  the  sabre  of  Dessaix 
Flash  at  the  column's  front,  and  in  the 

midst 

Napoleon,  upon  his  Barbary  horse, 
Calm,  swarthy-browed,  and  wiser  than 

the  Sphinx 

Whose  granite  lips  guard  Egypt's  mys 
tery. 
Ha !  what  a  rout !  our  cannon  bellowed 

round 
The  Pyramids  :  the  Mamelukes  closed 

in, 
And  hand  to  hand  like   devils  did  we 

fight, 
Rolled  towards  Sakkara  in  the  smoke 

and  sand. 

For  days  we  followed  up  the  Nile.     We 

pitched 
Our  tents  in  Memphis,  pitched  them  on 

the  site 

Of  Antinoe,  and  beside  the  cliffs 
Of  Aboufayda.     Then  we  came  anon 
On   Kenneh,  ere   the  sorely-frightened 

Bey 
Had  time  to  pack  his  harem :  nay,  we 

took 
His  camels,  not  his  wives :  and  so,  from 

day 

To  day,  past  wrecks  of  temples  half  sub 
merged 

In  sandy  inundation,  till  we  saw 
Old    noseless  Memnon   sitting  on  the 

plain, 
Both  hands  upon  his  knees,  and  in  the 

east 

Karnak's  propylon  and  its  pillared  court. 
The  sphinxes  wondered  —  such  as  had  a 

face  — 


To  see  us  stumbling  down  their  aveimeg; 

But  we  kept  silent.  One  may  whistle 
round 

Your  Roman  temples  here  at  Nismes,  or 
dance  ' 

Upon  the  Pont  du  Card  ;  —  tut,  take  my 
word, 

Egyptian  ruins  are  a  serious  thing : 

You  would  not  dare  let  fly  a  joke  beside 

The  maimed  colossi,  though  your  very 
feet 

Might  catch  between  some  mummied 
Pharaoh's  ribs. 

Dessaix  was  bent  on  chasing  Mame 
lukes, 

And  so  we  rummaged  tomb  and  cata 
comb, 

Clambered  the  hills  and  watched  the 
Desert's  rim 

For  sight  of  horse.  One  day  my  com 
pany 

(I  was  but  ensign  then)  found  far  within 

The  sands,  a  two-days'  journey  from  the 
Kile, 

A  round  oasis,  like  a  jewel  set. 

It  was  a  grove  of  date-trees,  clustering 
close 

About  a  tiny  spring,  whose  overflow 

Trickled  beyond  their  shade  a  little 
space, 

And  the  insatiate  Desert  licked  it  up. 

The  fiery  ride,  the  glare  of  afternoon 

Had  burned  our  faces,  so  we  stopped  to 
feel 

The  coolness  and  the  shadow,  like  a  bath 

Of  pure  ambrosial  lymph,  receive  our 
limbs 

And  sweeten  every  sense.  Drowsed  by 
the  soft, 

Delicious  greenness  and  repose,  I  crept 

Into  a  balmy  nest  of  yielding  shrubs, 

And  floated  off  to  slumber  on  a  cloud 

Of  rapturous  sensation. 

When  I  woke, 
So  deep  haa  been  the  oblivion  of  that 

sleep, 

That  Adam,  when  he  woke  in  Paradise, 
Was  not  more  blank  of  knowledge  ;  he 

had  felt 

As  heedlessly,  the  silence  and  the  shade  ; 
As  ignorautly  had  raised  his  eyes  and 

seen  — 

As,  for  a  moment,  I  —  what  then  I  saw 
With  terror,  freezing  limb  and  voice  lik« 

death, 
When  the  slow  sense,  supplying  one  lost 

link, 


THE  SOLDIER  AND  THE  PARD. 


85 


Ran  with  electric  fleetness  through  the 

chain 

And  showed  me  what  I  was,  —  no  mir 
acle, 

But  lost  and  left  alone  amid  the  waste, 
Fronting  a  deadly  Pard,  that  kept  great 

eyes 
Fixed  steadily  on  mine.    I  could  not 

move : 
My  heart  beat  slow  and  hard  :  I  sat  and 

gazed, 

Without  a  wink,  upon  those  jasper  orbs, 
Noting  the  while,  with  horrible  detail, 
Whereto  my  fascinated  sight  was  bound, 
Their  tawny  brilliance,  and  the  spotted 

fell 
That  wrinkled   round   them,  smoothly 

sloping  back 
And  curving  to  the  short  and    tufted 

ears. 

I  felt  —  and  with  a  sort  of  fearful  joy  — 
The  beauty  of   the  creature :   't  was  a 

pard, 
Not  such  as  one  of  those  they  show  you 

caged 
In    Paris,  —  lean    and    scurvy    beasts 

enough ! 
No :    but    a    desert    pard,  superb   and 

proud, 
That  would  have  died  behind  the  cruel 

bars. 

I  think  the  creature  had  not  looked  on 

man, 
For,  as  my  brain  grew  cooler,  I  could 

see 
Small  sign  of  fierceness  in  her  eyes,  but 

chief, 
Surprise  and  wonder.     More  and  more 

entranced, 
Her  savage  beauty  warmed   away  the 

chill 
Of    deathlike   terror    at    my  heart :  I 

stared 
With  kindling   admiration,   and   there 

came 

A  gradual  softness  o'er  the  flinty  light 
Within  her  eyes ;  a  shadow  crept  around 
Their  yellow  disks,  and  something  like 

a  dawn 

Of  recognition  of  superior  will, 
Of  brute  affection,  sympathy  enslaved 
By  higher  nature,  then  informed  her 

face. 
Thrilling  in  every  nerve,  I  stretched  my 

hand, — 

Bhe  silent,  moveless,  —  touched  her  vel 
vet  head, 


And  with  a  warm,  sweet  shiver  in  mj 

blood, 
Stroked  down  the   ruffled   hairs.     She 

did  not  start ; 
But,  in  a  moment's  lapse,  drew  up  one 

paw 
And  moved  a  step,  —  another,  —  till  her 

breath 
Came  hot  upon  my  face.     She  stopped : 

she  rolled 
A  deep-voiced  note  of  pleasure  and  of 

love, 
And  gathering  up  her  spotted  length, 

lay  down, 
Her  head  upon  my  lap,  and  forward 

thrust 
One    heavy-moulded    paw    across    my 

knees, 

The  glittering  talons  sheathing  tenderly. 
Thus  we,  in  that  oasis  all  alone, 
Sat  when  the  sun  went  down  :  the  Pard 

and  I, 
Caressing  and  caressed :   and  more  of 

love 
And  more   of    confidence   between   us 

came, 

I  grateful  for  my  safety,  she  alive 
With  the  dumb  pleasure  of  companion 
ship, 

Which   touched  with  instincts  of   hu 
manity 
Her  brutish  nature.     When  I  slept,  at 

last, 
My  arm  was  on  her  neck. 

The  morrow  brought 
No  rupture  of  the  bond  between  us  twain. 
The  creature  loved  me ;  she  would 

bounding  come, 

Cat-like,  to  rub  her  great,  smooth,  yel 
low  head 
Against  my  knee,  or  with  rough  tongue 

would  lick 
The  hand  that  stroked  the  velvet  of  her 

hide. 
How  beautiful  she  was !  how  lithe  and 

free 

The  undulating  motions  of  her  frame  ! 
How  shone,  like  isles  of  tawny  gold,  her 

spots, 
Mapped   on   the  creamy  white  !     And 

when  she  walked, 
No  princess,  with  the  crown  about  her 

brows, 
Looked   so   superbly   royal.      Ah,   my 

friends, 
Smile  as  you  may,  but  I  would  give  thia 

life 


86 


ROMANCES   AND  LYRICS. 


With  its  fantastic  pleasures — aye,  even 

that 

One  leads  in  Paris  —  to  be  back  again 
In  the   red   Desert  with  my  splendid 

Pard. 
That  grove  of  date-trees  was  our  home, 

our  world, 

A  star  of  verdure  in  a  sky  of  sand. 
Without  the  feathery  fringes  of  its  shade 
The    naked    Desert    ran,   its  burning 

round 

Sharp  as  a  sword  :  the  naked  sky  above, 
Awful  in  its  immensity,  not  shone 
There  only,  where  the  sun  supremely 

flamed, 
But  all  its  deep-blue  walls  were  pene- 

trant 
With   dazzling  light.     God  reigned  in 

Heaven  and  Earth, 

An  Everlasting  Presence,  and  his  care 
Fed  us,  alike  his  children.    From  the 

trees 
That  shook  down  pulpy  dates,  and  from 

the  spring, 

The  quiet  author  of  that  happy  grove, 
My  wants  were  sated ;   and  when  mid 
night  came, 
Then  would  the  Pard  steal  softly  from 

my  side, 
Take  the  unmeasured  sand  with  flying 

leaps 

And  vanish  in  the  dusk,  returning  soon 
With  a  gazelle's  light  carcass  in  her 

jaws. 
So  passed  the  days,  and  each  the  other 

taught 
Our  simple  language.     She  would  come 

at  call 
Of  the  pet  name  I  gave  her,  bound  and 

sport 
When  so  I  bade,  and  she  could  read  my 

face 
Through  all  its  changing  moods,  with 

better  skill 
Than  many  a  Christian  comrade.    Pard 

and  beast, 
Though  you  may  say  she  was,  she  had  a 

soul. 

But  Sin  will  find  the  way  to  Paradise. 

Erelong  the  sense  of  isolation  fed 

My  mind  with  restless  fancies.     I  be- 

>gan 
To  miss  the  life  of  camp,  the  march,  the 

fight, 

The  soldier's  emulation :  youthful  blood 
Ban  in  my  veins  :   the  silence  lost  its 

charm, 


And  when  the  morning  sunrise  lighted 

up 
The  threshold  of   the  Desert,  I  would 

gaze 
With  looks  of   bitter  longing  o'er  the 

sand. 
At  last,  I  filled  my  soldier's  sash  with 

dates, 
Drank  deeply  of  the  spring,  and  while 

the  Pard 
Eoamed  in  the  starlight  for  her  forage, 

took 
A  westward  course.    The  grove  already 

lay 
A    dusky     speck  —  no    more  —  when 

through  the  night 

Came  the  forsaken  creature's  eager  cry. 
Into  a  sandy  pit  I  crept,  and  heard 
Her  bounding  on  my  track  until  she 

rolled 
Down  from  the  brink  upon  me.     Then 

with  cries 
Of  joy   and   of  distress,  the  touching 

proof 
Of  the   poor  beast's  affection,  did  she 

strive 
To  lift  me —     Pardon,  friends!   these 

foolish  eyes 
Must  have  their  will :  and  had  you  seen 

her  then, 
In  her  mad  gambols,  as  we  homeward 

went, 
Your  hearts  had  softened  too. 

But  I,  possessed 

By  some  vile  devil  of  mistrust,  became 
More  jealous  and  impatient.     In  my 

heart 
I  cursed  the  grove,  and  with  suspicions 

wronged 
The  noble  Pard.     She  keeps  me  here,  I 

thought, 

Deceived  with  false  caresses,  as  a  cat 
Toys  with   the    trembling   mouse   she 

straight  devours. 

Will  she  so  gently  fawn  about  my  feet, 
When  the  gazelles  are  gone  ?     Will  she 

crunch  dates, 
And  drink  the  spring,  whose  only  drink 

is  blood  ? 

Am  I  to  ruin  flattered,  and  by  whom  1  — 
Not  even  a  man,  a  wily  beast  of  prey. 
Thus   did  the  Devil  whisper  in   mine 

ear, 
Till  those  black  thoughts  were  rooted  in 

my  heart 
And  made  me  cruel.    So  it  chanced  one 

day, 


ARIEL  IN   THE   CLOVEN   PINE. 


87 


That  as  I  watched  a  flock  of  birds,  that 

wheeled, 
And  dipped,  and  circled  in  the  air,  the 

Pard, 

Moved  by  a  freak  of  fond  solicitude 
To  win  my  notice,  closed   her  careful 

fangs 
About  my  knee.     Scarce  knowing  what 

I  did, 

In  the  blind  impulse  of  suspicious  fear, 
I  plunged,  full  home,  my  dagger  in  her 

neck. 
God  !  could  I  but  recall  that  blow  !   She 

loosed 

Her  hold,  as  softly  as  a  lover  quits 
His  mistress'  lips,   and  with  a  single 

groan, 
Full  of  reproach  and  sorrow,  sank  and 

died. 
What  had  I  done  !     Sure  never  on  this 

earth 

Did  sharper  grief  so  base  a  deed  requite. 
Its  murderous  fury  gone,  my  heart  was 

racked 
With  pangs   of  wild  contrition,  spent 

itself 
In  cries  and  tears,  the  while  I  called  on 

God 
To  curse  me  for  my  sin.     There  lay  the 

Pard, 
Her  splendid  eyes  all  film,  her  blazoned 

fell 
Smirched  with   her  blood ;   and  I,  her 

murderer, 
Less  than  a  beast,  had  thus  repaid  her 

love. 

Ah,  friends !  with  all  this  guilty  mem 
ory 

My  heart  is  sore  :  and  little  now  remains 
To  tell  you,  but  that  afterwards  —  how 

long, 
I  could  not  know  —  our  soldiers  picked 

me  up, 
Wandering  about  the  Desert,  wild  with 

grief 
And  sobbing  like  a  child.     My  nerves 

have  grown 

To  steel,  in  many  battles ;  I  can  step 
Without  a  shudder  through  the  heaps 

of  slain ; 

But  never,  never,  till  the  day  I  die, 
Prevent  a  woman's  weakness  when   I 

think 

Upon  my  desert  Pard  :  and  if  a  man 
Deny  this  truth  she  taught  me,  to  his 

face 
I  say  he  lies  :  a  beast  may  have  a  soul. 


ARIEL  IN  THE  CLOVEN  PINE, 

Now  the  frosty  stars  are  gone  : 
I  have  watched  them  one  by  one, 
Fading  on  the  shores  of  Dawn. 
Round  and  full  the  glorious  sun 
Walks  with  level  step  the  spray, 
Through  his  vestibule  of  Day, 
While  the  wolves  that  late  did  howl 
Slink  to  dens  and  coverts  foul, 
Guarded  l>y  the  demon  owl, 
Who,  last  night,  with  mocking  croon, 
Wheeled  athwart  the  chilly  moon, 
And  with  eyes  that  blankly  glared 
On  my  direful  torment  stared. 

The  lark  is  flickering  in  the  light ; 
Still  the  nightingale  doth  sing ;  — 
All  the  isle,  alive  with  Spring, 
Lies,  a  jewel  of  delight, 
On  the  blue  sea's  heaving  breast : 
Not  a  breath  from  out  the  West, 
But  some  balmy  smell  doth  bring 
From  the  sprouting  myrtle  buds, 
Or  from  meadowy  vales  that  lie  . 
Like  a  green  inverted  sky, 
Wfiich  the  yellow  cowslip  stare, 
And  the  bloomy  almond  woods, 
Cloud-like,  cross  with  roseate  bars. 
All  is  life  that  I  can  spy, 
To  the  farthest  sea  and  sky, 
And  my  own  the  only  pain 
Within  this  ring  of  Tyrrhene  main. 

In  the  gnarled  and  cloven  Pine 

Where  that  hell-born  hag  did  chain  we, 

All  this  orb  of  cloudless  shine, 

All  this  youth  in  Nature's  veins 

Tingling  with  the  season's  wine, 

With  a  sharper  torment  pain  me. 

Pansies  in  soft  April  rains 

Fill  their  stalks  with  honeyed  sap 

Drawn  from  Earth's  prolific  lap  ; 

But  the  sluggish  blood  she  brings 

To  the  tough  Pine's  hundred  rings 

Closer  locks  their  cruel  hold, 

Closer  draws  the  scaly  bark 

Round  the  crevice,  damp  and  cold. 

Where  my  useless  wings  I  fold, — 

Sealing  me  in  iron  dark. 

By  this  coarse  and  alien  state 

Is  my  dainty  essence  wronged ; 

Finer  senses  that  belonged 

To  my  freedom,  chafe  at  Fate, 

Till  the  happier  elves  I  hate, 

Who  in  moonlight  dances  turn 

Underneath  the  palmy  fern. 


88 


ROMANCES   AND   LYRICS. 


Or  in  light  and  twinkling  bands 
Follow  on  with  linked  hands 
To  the  Ocean's  yellow  sands. 

Primrose-eyes  each  morning  ope 
In  their  cool,  deep  beds  of  grass  ; 
Violets  make  the  airs  that  pass 
Telltales  of  their  fragrant  slope. 
I  can  see  them  where  they  spring 
Never  brushed  by  fairy  wing. 
All  those  corners  I  can  spy 
In  the  island's  solitude, 
Where  the  dew  is  never  dry, 
Nor  the  miser  bees  intrude. 
Cups  of  rarest  hue  are  there, 
Full  of  perfumed  wine  undrained,  — 
Mushroom  banquets,  ne'er  profaned, 
Canopied  by  maiden-hair. 
Pearls  I  see  upon  the  sands, 
Never  touched  by  other  hands, 
And  the  rainbow  bubbles  shine 
On  the  ridged  and  frothy  brine, 
Tenantless  of  voyager 
Till  they  burst  in  vacant  air. 
Oh,  the  songs  that  sung  might  be, 
And  the  mazy  dances  woven, 
Had  that  witch  ne'er  crossed  the  sea 
And  the  Pine  been  never  cloven ! 

Many  years  my  direst  pain 
Has  made  the  wave-rocked  isle  complain. 
Winds,  that  from  the  Cyclades 
Came,  to  blow  in  wanton  riot 
Round  its  shore's  enchanted  quiet, 
Bore  my  wailings  on  the  seas  : 
Sorrowing  birds  in  Autumn  went 
Through  the  world  with  my  lament. 
Still  the  bitter  fate  is  mine, 
All  delight  unshared  to  see, 
Smarting  in  the  cloven  Pine, 
While  I  wait  the  tardy  axe 
Which,  perchance,  shall  set  me  free 
From  the  damned  Witch  Sycorax. 


THE   SONG  OF  THE   CAMP. 

"  GIVE  us  a  song  !  "  the  soldiers  cried, 
The  outer  trenches  guarding, 

When  the  heated  guns  of  the  camps 

allied 
Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 

The  dark  Redan,  in  silent  scoff, 
Lay,  grim  and  threatening,  under  ; 

And  the  tawny  mound  of  the  Malakoff 
No  longer  belched  its  thunder. 


There  was  a  pause.    A  guardsman  said  ( 
"  We  storm  the  forts  to-morrow ; 

Sing  while  we  may,  another  day 
Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow." 

They  lay  along  the  battery's  side, 
Below  the  smoking  cannon  : 

Brave  hearts,  from   Severn  and  from 

Clyde, 
And  from  the  banks  of  Shannon. 

They  sang  of  love,  and  not  of  fame ; 

Forgot  was  Britain's  glory  : 
Each  heart  recalled  a  different  name, 

But  all  sang  "  Annie  Lawrie." 

Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song, 

Until  its  tender  passion 
Rose  like  an  anthem,  rich  and  strong,  — 

Their  battle-eve  confession. 

Dear  girl,  her  name  he  dared  not  speak, 
But,  as  the  song  grew  louder, 

Something  upon  the  soldier's  cheek 
Washed  off  the  stains  of  powder. 

Beyond  the  darkening  ocean  burned 
The  bloody  sunset's  embers, 

While  the  Crimean  valleys  learned 
How  English  love  remembers. 

And  once  again  a  fire  of  hell 
Rained  on  the  Russian  quarters, 

With  scream  of  shot,  and  burst  of  shell, 
And  bellowing  of  the  mortars  ! 

And  Irish  Nora's  eyes  are  dim 
For  a  singer,  dumb  and  gory ; 

And  English  Mary  mourns  for  him 
Who  sang  of  "  Annie  Lawrie." 

Sleep,  soldiers  !  still  in  honored  rest 
Your  truth  and  valor  wearing: 

The  bravest  are  the  tenderest,  — 
The  loving  are  the  daring. 


ICARUS. 

I. 

lo  TRIUMPHE  !  Lo,  thy  certain  art, 
My  crafty  sire,  releases  us  at  length  ! 
False  Minos  now  may  knit  his  baffled 

brows, 

And  in  the  labyrinth  by  thee  devised 
His  brutish  horns  in  angry  search  may 

toss 


ICARUS. 


89 


The  Minotanr,  —  but  them  and  I  are 
free  ! 

See  where  it  lies,  one  dark  spot  on  the 
breast 

Of  plains  far-shining  in  the  long-lost 
day, 

Thy  glory  and  our  prison  !   Either  hand 

Crete,  with  her  hoary  mountains,  olive- 
clad 

In  twinkling  silver,  'twixt  the  vineyard 
rows, 

Divides  the  glimmering  seas.  On  Ida's 
top 

The  sun,  discovering  first  an  earthly 
throne, 

Sits  down  in  splendor ;  lucent  vapors  rise 

From  folded  glens  among  the  awaking 
hills, 

Expand  their  hovering  films,  and  touch, 
and  spread 

In  airy  planes  beneath  us,  hearths  of  air 

Whereon  the  Morning  burns  her  hun 
dred  fires. 


Take  thou  thy  way  between  the  cloud 
and  wave. 

0  Daedalus,  my  father,  steering  forth 
To  friendly  Samos,  or  the  Cariau  shore  ! 
But  me  the  spaces  of  the  upper  heaven 
Attract,  the  height,  the   freedom,  and 

the  joy. 

For  now,  from  that  dark  treachery 
escaped, 

And  tasting  power  which  was  the  lust 
of  youth, 

Whene'er  the  white  blades  of  the  sea 
gull's  wings 

Flashed  round  the  headland,  or  the 
barbed  files 

Of  cranes  returning  clanged  across  the 
sky, 

No  half-way  flight,  no  errand  incom 
plete 

1  purpose.    Not,  as  once  in  dreams,  with 

pain 
I  mount,  with  fear  and  huge  exertion 

hold 

Myself  a  moment,  ere  the  sickening  fall 
Breaks     in    the    shock     of     waking. 

Launched,  at  last, 
Uplift  on   powerful  wings,  I  veer   and 

float 
Past  sunlit  isles  of  cloud,  that  dot  with 

light 

The  boundless  archipelago  of  sky. 
I  fan  the  airy  silence  till  it  starts 


In  rustling  whispers,  swallowed  up  as 

soon  ; 

I  warm  the  chilly  ether  with  my  breath ; 
I  with  the  beating  of  my  heart  make 

glad 

The  desert  blue.    Have  I  not  raised  my 
self 
Unto  this  height,  and  shall  I  cease  to 

soar  ? 
The   curious  eagles  wheel   about    my 

path  : 
With  sharp  and  questioning  eyes  they 

stare  at  me, 
With    harsh,   impatient    screams    they 

menace  me, 

Who,  with  these  vans  of  cunning  work 
manship 
Broad-spread,  adventure  on  their  high 

domain,  — 
Now  mine,   as    well.     Henceforth,   ye 

clamorous  birds, 

I  claim  the  azure  empire  of  the  air ! 
Henceforth  I  breast  the  current  of  the 

morn, 
Between   her  crimson  shores :   a  star, 

henceforth, 

Upon  the  crawling  dwellers  of  the  earth 
My  forehead    shines.     The    steam    of 

sacred  blood, 
The  smoke  of   burning  flesh   on  altars 

laid, 
Fumes  of  the  temple-wine,  and  sprinkled 

myrrh, 
Shall  reach  my  palate  ere  they  reach  the 

Gods. 


Nay,  am  not  I  a   God  ?     What   other 

wing, 
If  not  a  God's,  could   in  the  rounded 

sky 
Hang  thus  in   solitary   poise?     What 

need, 
Ye  proud  Immortals,  that  my  balanced 

plumes 
Should  grow,  like  yonder  eagle's  from 

the  nest  7 

It  may  be,  ere  my  crafty  father's  line 
Sprang  from  Erectheus,  some  artificer, 
Who  found  you  roaming  wingless   on 

the  hills, 

Naked,  asserting  godship  in  the  dearth 
Of  loftier  claimants,  fashioned  you  the 

same. 
Thence  did  you  seize  Olympus :  thence 

your  pride 
Compelled  the  race  of  men,  your  slavey 

to  tear 


90 


ROMANCES   AND    LYKICS. 


The  temple  from  the  mountain's  marble 

womb, 
To   carve  you   shapes   more  beautiful 

than  they, 
To  sate    your  idle    nostrils  with  the 

reek 
Of  gums  and  spices,  heaped  on  jewelled 

gold. 


Lo,  where  Hyperion,  through  the  glow 
ing  air 
Approaching,  drives !     Fresh  from  his 

banquet-meats, 

Flushed  with  Olympian  nectar,  angrily 
He  guides  his  fourfold  span  of  furious 

steeds, 
Convoyed   by   that  bold   Hour   whose 

ardent  torch 
Burns  up  the  dew,  toward  the  narrow 

beach, 
This    long,   projecting   spit   of  cloudy 

gold 
Whereon  I  wait  to  greet  him  when  he 

comes. 
Think  not  I  fear  thine  auger  :  this  day, 

thou, 
Lord  of  the  silver  bow,  shalt   bring  a 

guest 

To  sit  in  presence  of  the  equal  Gods 
In    your    high    hall :    wheel   but    thy 

chariot  near, 
That  I  may  mount  beside  thee  ! 

What  is  this  ? 

I   hear  the   crackling    hiss  of    singed 

plumes ! 
The  stench  of  burning  feathers  stifles 

me ! 
My  loins  are  stung  with  drops  of  molten 

wax !  — 
Ai !   ai !  my   ruined   vans  !  —  I  fall !  I 

die! 

Ere  the  blue  noon  o'erspauned  the  bluer 

strait 

Which  parts  Icaria  from  Samos,  fell, 
Amid  the  silent  wonder  of  the  air, 
Fell  with  a  shock  that  startled  the  still 

wave, 
A  shrivelled  wreck  of  crisp,  entangled 

plumes, 
A     head    whence    eagles'    beaks    had 

plucked  the  eyes, 
And  clots  of  wax,  black  limbs  by  eagles 

torn 

in  falling :  and  a  circling  eagle  screamed 
Around  that  floating  horror  of  the  sea 
Derision,  and  above  Hyperion  shone. 


THE 

OFF,  fetters  of  the  falser  life,  — 

Weeds,  that  conceal  the  static'*)  form  ! 
This  silent  world  with  truth  is  rife, 
This  wooing  air  is  warm. 

Now  fall  the  fchin  disguises,  planned 

For  men  too  weak  to  walk  uu  blamed: 
Naked  beside  the  sea  I  stand,  — 
Naked  and  not  ashamed. 

Where  youitT  dancing  billows  dip, 

Far-otF,  to  ocean's  misty  verge, 
Ploughs    Mo  ruing,    like    a    full-sailed 

ship, 
The  Orient's  cloudy  surge. 

With  spraj  of  scarlet  lire  before 

The  ruffle'i  gold  that  round  her  dies, 
She  sails  above  the  sleeping  shore, 
Across  the  waking  skies. 

The  dewy  bes^ch  beneath  her  glows  ; 
A   pencilled    beam,    the    lighthouse 

burns  : 
Full-breathed,   *te    fragrant    s^a-wiud 

blows,  — 
Life  to  the  we  rid  returns  f 

I  stand,  a  spirit  newl^-bom, 

White-limbed  and  pure,  and  strong, 

and  fair  ; 

The  first-begotten  son  of  Mcru, 
The  nursling  of  the  air  ! 

There,  in  a  heap,  the  masks  oc  Earth, 
The   cares,  the  sins,  the   griefs,  are 

thrown  : 

Complete,  as  through  divirer  birt\ 
I  walk  the  sands  aloue. 

With  downy  hands  the  winds  caress, 
With  frothy  lips  the  amorous  sea, 
As  welcoming  the  nakedness 
Of  vanished  gods,  in  rie. 

Along  the  ridged  and  sloping  sand, 
Where  headlands  clasp  i*ie  crescent 

cove, 

A  shining  spirit  of  the  land, 
A  snowy  shape,  I  move  : 


Or,  plunged  in  hollow-rolling  I  «•* 
In  emerald  cradles  rocked  anu 
The  sceptre  of  the  sea  is  mine, 
And  mine  his  endless  sons;. 


THE   PALM   AND   THE   PINE. 


91 


For  Earth  with  primal  clew  is  wet, 
Her  long-lost  child  to  rebaptize  j 
Her  fresh,  immortal  Edens  yet 
Their  Adam  recognize. 

Her  ancient  freedom  is  his  fee  ; 

Her  ancient  beauty  is  his  dower : 

She  bares  her  ample  breasts,  that  he 

May  suck  the  milk  of  power. 

Press  on,  ye  hounds  of  life,  that  lurk 

So  close,  to  seize  your  harried  prey  ; 
Ye  iiends  of  Custom,  Gold,  and  Work, — 
I  hear  your  distant  bay ! 

And,  like  the  Arab,  when  he  bears 

To  the  insulted  camel's  path 
His  garment,  which  the  camel  tears, 
And  straight  forgets  his  wrath  ; 

So,  yonder  badges  of  your  sway, 

Life's  paltry  husks,  to  you  I  give  : 
Fall  on,  and  in  your  blindness  say  : 
We  hold  the  fugitive  ! 

But  leave  to  me  this  brief  escape 

To  simple  manhood,  pure  and  free,  — 
A  child  of  God,  in  God's  own  shape, 
Between  the  land  and  sea  ! 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  TREVI. 

THE  Coliseum  lifts  at  night 

Its  broken  cells  more  proudly  far 

Than  in  the  noonday's  naked  light, 
For  every  rent  enshrines  a  star  : 
On  Cffisar's  hill  the  royal  Lar 

Presides  within  his  mansion  old  : 
Decay  and  Death  no  longer  mar 

The  moon's  atoning  mist  of  gold. 

Still  lingering  near  the  shrines  renewed, 

We  sadly,  fondly,  look  our  last ; 
Each  trace  concealed  of  spoilage  rude 

From  old  or  late  iconoclast, 

Till,  Trajan's  whispering  forum  passed, 
We  hear  the  waters,  showering  bright, 

Of  Trevi's  ancient  fountain,  cast 
Their  woven  music  on  the  night. 

The  Genius  of  the  Tiber  nods 

Benign,  above  his  tilted  urn  ; 
Kneel  down  and  drink !  the  beckoning 


This  last  libation  will  not  spurn. 
Drink,  and  the  old  enchantment  learn 
That  hovers  yet  o'er  Trevi's  foam,  — 


The  promise  of  a  sure  return, 
Fresh  footsteps  in  the  dust  of  Borne  ! 

Kneel  down  and  drink !  the  golden  days 

Here  lived  and  dreamed,  shall  dawn 

again : 
Albano's  hill,  through  purple  haze, 

Again  shall  crown  the  Latin  plain. 

Whatever  stains  of  Time  remain, 
Left  by  the  years  that  intervene, 

Lo !  Trevi's  fount  shall  toss  its  rain 
To  wash  the  pilgrim's  forehead  clean. 

Diink,  and  depart !  for  Life  is  just : 
She  gives  to  Faith  a  master-key 

To  ope  the  gate  of  dreams  august, 
And  take  from  joys  in  memory 
The  certainty  of  joys  to  be  : 

And  Trevi's  basins  shall  be  bare 
Ere  we  again  shall  fail  to  see 

Their  silver  in  the  Roman  air. 


PROPOSAL. 

THE  violet  loves  a  sunny  bank, 

The  cowslip  loves  the  lea ; 
The  scarlet  creeper  loves  the  elm, 
But  I  love  —  thee. 

The  sunshine  kisses  mount  and  vale, 

The  stars,  they  kiss  the  soa  ; 
The  west  winds  kiss  the  clover  bloom, 
But  I  kiss  — thee! 

The  oriole  weds  his  mottled  mate . 

The  lily  's  bride  o'  the  bee ; 
Heaven's    marriage-ring  is  round   the 

earth  — 
Shall  I  wed  thee  ? 


THE  PALM  AND  THE  PINE. 

WHEN  Peter  led  the  First  Crusade, 
A  Norseman  wooed  an  Arab  maid. 

He  loved  her  lithe  and  palmy  grace, 
And  the  dark  beauty  of  her  face  : 

She  loved  his  cheeks,  so  ruddy  fair, 
His  sunny  eyes  and  yellow  hair. 

He  called  :  she  left  her  father's  tent ; 
She  followed  wheresoe'er  he  went. 

She  left  the  palms  of  Palestine 
To  sit  beneath  the  Norland  pine. 


ROMANCES   AND   LYRICS. 


Bhe  sang  the  musky  Orient  strains 
Where  Winter  swept  the  snowy  plains. 

Their    natures    met    like    Night    and 

Morn 
What  time  the  morning-star  is  born. 

The    child     that    from   their    meeting 

grew 
Hung,  like  that  star,  between  the  two. 

The  glossy  night  his  mother  shed 
From  her  long  hair  was  on  his  head  : 

But  in  its  shade  they  saw  arise 
The  morning  of  his  father's  eyes. 

Beneath  the  Orient's  tawny  stain 
Wandered  the  Norseman's  crimson  vein : 

Beneath  the  Northern  force  was  seen 
The  Arab  sense,  alert  and  keen. 

His  were  the  Viking's  sinewy  hands, 
The  arching  foot  of  Eastern  lauds. 

And  in  his  soul  conflicting  strove 
Northern  indifference,  Southern  love; 

The  chastity  of  temperate  blood, 
Impetuous  passion's  fiery  flood  ; 

The  settled  faith  that  nothing  shakes, 
The  jealousy  a  breath  awakes  ; 

The  planning  Reason's  sober  gaze, 
And  fancy's  meteoric  blaze. 

And  stronger,  as  he  grew  to  man, 
The  contradicting  natures  ran,  — 

As  mingled  streams  from  Etna  flow, 
One  born  of  fire,  and  one  of  snow. 

And  one  impelled,  and  one  withheld, 
And  one  obeyed,  and  one  rebelled. 

One  gave  him  force,  the  other  fire  j 
This  self-control,  and  that  desire. 

One  filled  his  heart  with  fierce  unrest ; 
With  peace  serene  the  other  blessed. 

He  knew  the  depth  and  knew  the  height, 
The  bounds  of  darkness  and  of  light ; 

And  who  these  far  extremes  has  seen 
Mu»t  needs  know  all  that  lies  between. 


So,  with  untaught,  instinctive  art, 
He  read  the  myriad-natured  heart. 

He  met  the  men  of  many  a  land  ; 
They  gave  their  souls  into  his  hand  ; 

And  none  of  them  was  long  unknown 
The  hardest  lesson  was  his  own. 

But  how  he  lived,  and  where,  and  when. 
It  matters  not  to  other  men ; 

For,  as  a  fountain  disappears, 
To  gush  again  in  later  years,   ' 

So  hidden  blood  may  find  the  day, 
When  centuries  have  rolled  away ; 

And  fresher  lives  betray  at  last 
The  lineage  of  a  far-off  Past. 

That  nature,  mixed  of  sun  and  snow 
Repeats  its  ancient  ebb  and  flow  : 

The  children  of  the  Palm  and  Pine 
Renew  their  blended  lives  —  in  mine. 


ON  LEAVING  CALIFORNIA. 

0  FAIR  young  land,  the  youngest,  fair 
est  far 

Of  which  our  world  can  boast,  — 
Whose  guardian  planet,  Evening's  silver 

star 
Illumes  thy  golden  coast,  — 

How  art  thou  conquered,  tamed  in  all 

the  pride 

Of  savage  beauty  still  ! 
How  brought,  0  panther  of  the  splendid 

hide, 
To  know  thy  master's  will ! 

No  more  thou  sittest  on  thy  tawny  hilla 

In  indolent  repose  ; 
Or  pour'st  the  crystal  of  a  thousand  rills 

Down  from  thy  house  of  snows. 

But  where  the  wild-oats  wrapped  thy 

knees  in  gold, 

The  ploughman  drives  his  share, 
And  where,  through   canons  deep,  thy 

streams  are  rolled, 
The  miner's  arm  is  bare. 

Yet  in  thy  lap,  thus  rudely  rent  and  torn 
A  nobler  seed  shall  be  : 


EUPHORION. 


Mother  of  mighty  men,  thou  shalt  not 

mourn 
Thy  lost  virginity ! 

Thy  human  children  shall  restore  the 
grace 

Gone  with  thy  fallen  pines  : 
The  wild,  barbaric  beauty  of  thy  face 

Shall  round  to  classic  lines. 

And  Order,  Justice,  Social  Law  shall 

curb 

Thy  untamed  energies ; 
And  Art  and  Science,  with  their  dreams 

superb, 
Replace  thine  ancient  ease. 

The  marble,  sleeping  in  thy  mountains 

now, 

Shall  live  in  sculptures  rare  ; 
Thy  native  oak  shall  crown  the  sage's 

brow,  — 
Thy  bay,  the  poet's  hair. 

Thy  tawny  hills  shall  bleed  their  purple 
wine, 

Thy  valleys  yield  their  oil ; 
And  Music,  with  her  eloquence  divine, 

Persuade  thy  sons  to  toil. 

Till  Hesper,  as  he  trims  his  silver  beam, 
No  happier  land  shall  see, 

And  Earth  shall  find  her  old  Arcadian 

dream 
Restored  again  in  thee  ! 


EUPHORION. 

"  I  will  not  longer 
Earth-bound  linger : 
Loosen  your  hold  on 
Hand  and  on  ringlet, 
Girdle  and  garment ; 
Leave  them  :  they  're  mine !  " 

"  Bethink  thee,  bethink  thee 
To  whom  thou  belongest ! 
Say,  wouldst  thou  wound  us, 
Rudely  destroying 
Threefold  the  beauty, — 
Mine,  his,  and  thine  ?  " 

FAUST,  SECOND  PART. 

R^T,  fold  your  arms,  beloved  Friends, 
Above  the  hearts  that  vainly  beat ! 

Or  catch  the  rainbow  where  it  bends, 
And  find  your  darling  at  its  feet ; 

•Jr  fix  the  fountain's  varying  shape, 
The  sunset-cloud's  elusive  dye, 


The   speech   of  winds  thru  round  the 

cape 
Make  music  to  the  sea  and  sky : 

So  may  you  summon  from  the  air 
The  loveliness  that  vanished  hence, 

And  Twilight  give  his  beauteous  hair, 
And  Morning  give  his  countenance, 

And  Life  about  his  being  clasp 
Her  rosy  girdle  once  again:  — 

But  no  !  let  go  your  stubborn  grasp 
On  some  wild  hope,  and  take  youi 
pain ! 

For,  through  the  crystal  of  your  tears, 
His  love  and  beauty  fairer  shine ; 

The  shadows  of  advancing  years 
Draw  back,  and  leave  him  all  divine. 

And  Death,  that  took  him,  cannot  claim 
The  smallest  vesture  of  his  birth,  — 

The  little  life,  a  dancing  flame 

That  hovered  o'er  the  hills  of  earth,  — 

The  finer  soul,  that  unto  onrs 
A  subtle  perfume  seemed  to  be, 

Like  incense  blown  from  April  flowers 
Beside  the  scarred  and  stormy  tree,  — 

The  wondering  eyes,  that  ever  saw 
Some  fleeting  mystery  in  the  air, 

And  felt  the  stars  of  evening  draw 
His     heart    to    silence,    childhood's 
prayer ! 

Our  suns  were  all  too  fierce  for  him ; 

Our  rude  winds  pierced  him  through 

and  through : 
But  Heaven  has  valleys  cool  and  dim, 

And  boscage  sweet  with  starry  dew. 

There  knowledge  breathes  in  balmy  air, 
Not   wrung,    as    here,  with    panting 
breast : 

The  wisdom  born  of  toil  you  share ; 
But  he,  the  wisdom  born  of  rest. 

For  every  picture  here  that  slept, 
A  living  canvas  is  unrolled ; 

The  silent  harp  he  might  have  swept 
Leans    to   his  touch  its    strings   ot 
gold. 

Believe,  dear  Friends,  they  murmur  still 
Some  sweet  accord  to  those  you  play, 

That  happier  winds  of  Eden  thrill 
With  echoes  of  the  earthly  lay ; 


94 


ROMANCES   AND   LYRICS. 


That  he,  for  every  triumph  won, 
Whereto  your  poet-souls  aspire, 

Sees  opening  in  that  perfect  sun, 
Another  blossom's  bud  of  fire  ! 

Each  song,  of  Love  and  Sorrow  born, 
Another  flower  to  crown  your  boy,  — 

Each  shadow  here  his  ray  of  morn, 
Till  Grief  shall  clasp  the  hand  of  Joy  ! 

WIND  AND  SEA. 


THE  sea  is  a  jovial  comrade, 

He  laughs  wherever  he  goes  ; 
His  merriment  shines  in  the  dimpling 

lines 

That  wrinkle  his  hale  repose  ; 
He  lays  himself  down  at  the  feet  of  the 

Sun, 

And  shakes  all  over  with  glee, 
And  the  broad-backed  billows  fall  faint 

on  the  shore, 
In  the  mirth  of  the  mighty  Sea ! 


But  the  Wind  is  sad  and  restless, 

And  cursed  with  an  inward  pain  ; 
You  may  hark  as  you  will,  by  valley  or 
hill, 

But  you  hear  him  still  complain. 
He  wails  on  the  barren  mountains, 

And  shrieks  on  the  wintry  sea; 
He  sobs  in  the  cedar,  and  moans  in  the 
pine, 

And  shudders  all  over  the  aspen  tree. 


Welcome  are  both  their  voices, 

And  I  know  not  which  is  best,  — 
The  laughter  that  slips  from  the  Ocean's 
lips, 

Or  the  comfortless  Wind's  unrest. 
There's  a  pang  in  all  rejoicing, 

A  joy  in  the  heart  of  pain, 
And  the  Wind  that  saddens,  the  Sea 
that  gladdens, 

Are  singing  the  selfsame  strain ! 


MY  DEAD. 

back   the   soul   of    youth   once 
more ! 
The  years  are  fleeting  fast  away, 


And  this  brown   hair  will    soon    be 

gray, 

These   cheeks  be    pale    and    furrowed 
o'er. 

Ah,  no,  the  child  is  long  since  dead, 
Whose  light  feet  spurred  the  laggard 

years, 
Who  breathed  in  future  atmospheres, 

Ere  Youth's  eternal  Prssent  fled. 

Dead  lies  the  boy,  whose  timid  eye 
Shunned  every  face  that  spake  not 

love ; 
Whose  simple  vision  looked  above, 

And  saw  a  glory  in  the  sky. 

And  now  the  youth  has  sighed  his  last ; 
I  see  him  cold  upon  his  bier, 
But  in  these  eyes  there  is  no  tear: 

He  joins  his  brethren  of  the  Past. 

'T  was  time  he  died :  the  gates  of  Art 
Had    shut    him    from    the   temple's 

shrine, 
And  now  I  climb  her  mount  divine, 

But  with  the  sinews,  not  the  heart. 

How  many  more,  0  Life  !  shall  I 

In  future  offer  up  to  thee  ? 

And  shall  they  perish  utterly, 
Upon  whose  graves  I  clomb  so  high  1 

Say,  shall  I  not  at  last  attain 

Some  height,  from  whence  the  Past 
is  clear, 

In  whose  immortal  atmosphere 
I  shall  behold  my  Dead  again  ? 


THE  LOST  CROWN. 

Yon  ask  me  why  I  sometimes  drop 
The  threads  of  talk  I  weave  with  you, 

And  midway  in  expression  stop 
As  if  a  sudden  trumpet  blew. 

It  is  because  a  trumpet  blows 

From    steeps    your  feet  will    never 

climb : 
It  calls  my  soul  from  present  woes 

To  rule  some  buried  realm  of  Time. 

Wide  open  swing  the  guarded  gates, 
That  shut    from  you   the   vales   of 
dawn ; 

And  there  my  car  of  triumph  waits, 
By  white,  immortal  horses  drawn. 


STUDIES   FOB   PICTURES. 


95 


A.  throne  of  gold  the  wheels  uphold, 
Each  spoke  a  ray  of  jewelled  fire : 

The  crimson  banners  float  unrolled, 
Or  falter  when  the  winds  expire. 

Lo  !  where  the  valley's  bed  expands, 
Through    cloudy  censer-smoke,    up- 
curled  — 

The  avenue  to  distant  lands  — 
The  single  landscape  of  a  world  ! 

I  mount  the  throne ;  I  seize  the  rein ; 

Between  the  shouting  throngs  I  go, 
The  millions  crowding  hill  and  plain, 

And  now  a  thousand  trumpets  blow  ! 

The  armies  of  the  world  are  there, 
The  pomp,  the  beauty,  and  the  power, 

Far-shining  through  the  dazzled  air, 
To  crown  the  triumph  of  the  hour. 

Enthroned  aloft,  I  seem  to  float 
On  wide,  victorious  wings  upborne, 

Past  the  rich  vale's  expanding  throat, 
To    where    the    palace    burns    with 
morn. 

My  limbs  dilate,  my  breast  expands, 

A  starry  fire  is  in  my  eye  ; 
I  ride  above  the  subject  lands, 

A  god  beneath  the  hollow  sky. 

Peal  out,  ye  clarions  !  shout,  ye  throngs. 
Beneath  your  banners'  reeling  folds  ! 

This  pageantry  to  me  belongs,  — 
My  hand  its  proper  sceptre  holds. 

Surge  on,  in  still  augmenting  lines, 
Till  the  great  plain  be  overrun, 

A-nd  my  procession  far  outshines 
The  bended  pathway  of  the  sun ! 

But  when  my  triumph  overtops 
This  language,  which   from  vassals 
grew, 

The  crown  from  off  my  forehead  drops, 
And  I  again  am  serf  with  you. 


STUDIES  FOR  PICTURES. 
I. 

AT    HOME. 

THE  rain  is  sobbing  on  the  wold ; 
The  house  is  dark,  the  hearth  is  cold  ; 


And,  stretching  drear  and  ashy  gray 
Beyond  the  cedars,  lies  the  bay. 

The  winds  are  moaning,  as  they  pass 
Through    tangled    knots    of     autumn 

grass,  — 

A  weary,  dreary  sound  of  woe, 
As  if  all  joy  were  dead  below. 

I  sit  alone,  I  wait  in  vain 
Some  voice  to  lull  this  nameless  pain  ; 
But  from  my  neighbor's  cottage  near 
Come  sounds  of  happy  household  cheer. 

My  neighbor  at  his  window  stands, 
His  youngest  baby  in  his  hands  ; 
The  others  seek  his  tender  kiss, 
And  one  sweet  woman  crowns  his  bliss. 

I  look  upon  the  rainy  wild  : 
I  have  no  wife,  I  have  no  child  : 
There  is  no  fire  upon  my  hearth, 
And  none  to  love  me  on  the  earth. 


II. 


THE    NEIGHBOR. 

How  cool  and  wet  the  lowlands  lie 
Beneath  the  cloaked  and  hooded  sky ' 
How  softly  beats  the  welcome  rain 
Against  the  plashy  window-pane  ! 

There  is  no  sail  upon  the  bay  : 

We  cannot  go  abroad  to-day, 

But,  darlings,  come  and  take  my  hand, 

And  hear  a  tale  of  Fairy-land. 

The  baby's. little  head  shall  rest 
In  quiet  on  his  father's  breast, 
And  mother,  if  he  chance  to  stir, 
Shall  sing  him  songs  once  sung  to  her. 

Ah,  little  ones,  ye  do  not  fret 
Because  the  garden  grass  is  wet ; 
Ye  love  the  rains,  whene'er  they  come 
That  all  day  keep  your  father  home. 

No  fish  to-day  the  net  shall  yield ; 
The  happy  oxen  graze  afield  ; 
The  thirsty  corn  will  drink  its  fill. 
And  louder  sing  the  woodland  rill. 

Then,  darlings,  nestle  round  the  hearth; 
Ye  are  the  sunshine  of  the  earth : 
Your  tender  eyes  so  fondly  shine, 
They  bring  a  welcome  rain  to  mine. 


ROMANCES   AND   LYRICS. 


in 

TINDER    THE    8TAKS. 

How  the  hot  revel's  fever  dies, 
Beneath  the  stillness  of  the  skies  ! 
How  suddenly  the  whirl  and  glare 
Shoot  far  away,  and  this  cold  air 
Its  icy  beverage  brings,  to  chase 
The  burning  wine-flush  from  my  face  ! 
The  window's  gleam  still  faintly  falls, 
And  music  sounds  at  intervals, 
Jarring  the  pulses  of  the  night 
With  whispers  of  profane  delight  ; 
But  on  the  midnight's  awful  strand, 
Like  some  wrecked   swimmer  flung  to 

land, 

I  lie,  and  hear  those  breakers  roar  : 
And  smile — they  cannot  harm  me  more ! 

Keep,  keep  your  lamps ;  they  do  not  mar 
The  silver  of  a  single  star. 
The  painted  roses  you  display 
Drop  from  your  cheeks,  and  fade  away; 
The  snowy  warmth  you  bid  me  see 
Is  hollowness  and  mockery  ; 
The  words  that  make  your  sin  so  fair 
Grow  silent  in  this  vestal  air  ; 
The  loosened  madness  of  your  hair, 
That  wrapped  me  in  its  snaky  coils, 
No  more  shall  mesh  me  in  your  toils ; 
Your  very  kisses  on  my  brow 
Burn  like  the  lips  of  devils  now. 
O  sacred  night!     0  virgin  calm! 
Teach  me  the  immemorial  psalm 
Of  your  eternal  watch  sublime 
Above  the  grovelling  lusts  of  Time  ! 
Within,  the  orgie  shouts  and  reels ; 
Without,  the  planets'  golden  wheels 
Spin,  circling  through  the  utmost  space ; 
Within,  each  flushed  and  reckless  face 
Is  masked  to  cheat  a  haunting  care  ; 
Without,  the  silence  and  the  prayer. 
Within,  the  beast  of  flesh  controls; 
Without,  the  God  that  speaks  in  souls ! 


IV. 

IN    THE -MORNING. 

THE  lamps  were  thick  ;  the  air  was  hot ; 

The  heavy  curtains  hushed  the  room ; 
The  sultry  midnight  seemed  to  blot 

All  life  but  ours  in  vacant  gloom. 

Fou  spoke :  my  blood  in  every  vein 
Throbbed,  as  by  sudden  fever  stirred, 


And  some  strange  whirling  in  my  brain 
Subdued  my  judgment,  as  I  heard. 

Ah,  yes  !  when  men  are  dead  asleep, 
When  all  the  tongues  of  day  are  still, 

The  heart  must  sometimes  fail  to  keep 
Its  natural  poise  'twixt  good  and  ill. 

You  knew  too  well  its  blind  desires, 
Its  savage  instincts,  scarce  confessed  ; 

I  could  not  see  you  touch  the  wires, 
But  felt  your  lightning  in  my  breast 

For  you,  Life's  web  displayed  its  flaws, 
The  wrong  which  Time  transforms  to 
right : 

The  iron  mesh  of  social  laws 
Was  but  a  cobweb  in  your  sight. 

You  showed  that  tempting  freedom, 
where 

The  passions  bear  their  perfect  fruit, 
The  cheats  of  conscience  cannot  scare, 

And  Self  is  monarch  absolute. 

And  something  in  me  seemed  to  rise, 
And  trample  old  obedience  down  : 

The  serf  sprang  up,  with  furious  eyes, 
And  clutched  at  the  imperial  crown. 

That  fierce  rebellion  overbore 
The  arbiter  that  watched  within, 

Till  Sin  so  changed  an  aspect  wore, 
It  was  no  longer  that  of  Sin. 

You  gloried  in  the  fevered  flush 
That  spread,  defiant,  o'er  my  face, 

Nor  thought  how  soon  this  morning's 

blush 
Would  chronicle  the  night's  disgrace. 

I  wash  my  eyes ;  I  bathe  my  brow ; 

I  see  the  sun  on  hill  and  plain : 
The  old  allegiance  claims  me  now, 

The  old  content  returns  again. 

Ah,  seek  to  stop  the  sober  glow 

And  healthy  airs  that  come  with  day, 

For  when  the  cocks  at  dawning  crow 
Your  evil  spirits  flee  away. 


SUNKEN  TREASURES. 

WHEN   the  uneasy  waves  of  life  sub 
side, 

And  the  soothed  ocean  sleeps  in  glassy 
rest, 


THE   VOYAGERS. 


9? 


I  see,  submerged,  beyond  or  storm  or 

tide, 

The  treasures  gathered  in  its  greedy 
breast. 

There  still  they  shine,  through  the  trans 
lucent  Past, 

Far  down  on  that  forever  quiet  floor ; 
No  fierce  upheaval  of  the  deep  shall  cast 
Them   back,  —  no  wave  shall  wash 
them  to  the  shore. 

I  see  them  gleaming,  beautiful  as  when 
Erewhile  they  floated,  convoya  of  my 

fate; 

The  barks  of  lovely  women,  noble  men, 
Full-sailed  with  hope,  and  stored  with 
Love's  own  freight. 

The  sunken  ventures  of  my  heart  as 

well, 

Look  tip  to  me,  as  perfect  as  at  dawn ; 
My  golden  palace  heaves  beneath  the 

swell 

To  meet  my  touch,  and  is  again  with 
drawn. 

There  sleep  the  early  triumphs,  cheaply 

won, 
That    led   Ambition   to   his    utmost 

verge, 
And  still  his  visions,  like  a  drowning 

sun, 

Send  up  receding  splendors  through 
the  surge. 

There  wait  the  recognitions,  the  quick 

ties, 
Whence  the   heart    knows    its    kin, 

wherever  cast  ; 

And  there  the  partings,  when  the  wist 
ful  eyes 

Caress  each  other  as  they  look  their 
last. 

There  lie  the  summer  eves,  delicious 

eves, 
The  soft  green  valleys  drenched  with 

light  divine, 
The  lisping  murmurs  of  the  chestnut 

leaves, 

The   hand    that    lay,  the   eyes   that 
looked  in  mine. 

There  lives  the  hour  of  fear  and  rapture 

yet, 

The  perilled  climax  of  the  passionate 
years ; 


There  still  the  rains  of  wan  December 

wet 

A  naked  mound,  —  I  cannot  see  for 
tears  ! 

There  are  they  all :  they  do  not  fade  or 

waste, 
Lapped  in  the  arms  of  the  embalming 

brine ; 
More  fair  than  when  their  beings  mine 

embraced,  — 

Of  nobler  aspect,   beauty  more   di 
vine. 

I  see  them  all,  but  stretch  my  hands  in 

vain ; 
No  deep-sea  plummet  reaches  where 

they  rest ; 
No  cunning   diver  shall  descend    the 

main, 

And  bring  a  single  jewel  from  its 
breast. 


THE  VOYAGERS. 

No  longer  spread  the  sail ! 

No  longer  strain  the  oar  ! 
For  never  yet  has  blown  the  gale 

Will  bring  us  nearer  shore. 

The  swaying  keel  slides  on, 

The  helm  obeys  the  hand ; 
Fast  we  have  sailed  from  dawn  to  dawn, 

Yet  never  reach  the  land. 

Each  morn  we  see  its  peaks, 

Made  beautiful  with  snow  ; 
Each  eve  its  vales  and  winding  creeks, 

That  sleep  in  mist  below. 

At  noon  we  mark  the  gleam 

Of  temples  tall  and  fair ; 
At  midnight  watch  its  bonfires  stream 

In  the  auroral  air. 

And  still  the  keel  is  swift, 

And  still  the  wind  is  free, 
And  still  as  far  its  mountains  lift 

Beyond  the  enchanted  sea. 

Yet  vain  is  all  return, 

Though  false  the  goal  before ; 
The  gale  is  ever  dead  astern, 

The  current  sets  to  shore. 

0  shipmates,  leave  the  ropes, — 
And  what  though  no  one  steers, 


98 


ROMANCES    AND   LYRICS. 


We  sail  no  faster  for  our  hopes. 
No  slower  fur  our  fears. 

Howe'er  t  le  bark  is  blown, 
Lie  down  and  sleep  awhile  : 

What  profits  toil,  when  chance  alone 
Can  bring  us  to  the  isle  ? 


SONG. 

Now  the  days  are  brief  and  drear : 
Naked  lies  the  new-born  Year 
In  his  cradle  of  the  snow, 
And  the  winds  unbridled  blow, 
And  the  skies  hang  dark  and  low,  — 
For  the  Summers  come  and  go. 

Leave  the  clashing  cymbals  mute  ! 
Pipe  no  more  the  happy  flute  ! 
Sing  no  more  that  dancing  rhyme 
Of  the  rose's  harvest-time  ;  — 
Sing  a  requiem,  sad  and  low  : 
For  the  Summers  come  and  go. 

Where  is  Youth  ?     He  strayed  away 
Through  the  meadow-flowers  of  May. 
Where  is  Love  ?     The  leaves  that  fell 
From  his  trysting-bower,  can  tell. 
Wisdom  stays,  sedate  and  slow, 
And  the  Summers  come  and  go. 

Yet  a  few  more  years  to  run, 
Wheeling  round  in  gloom  and  sun: 
Other  raptures,  other  woes,  — 
Toil  alternate  with  Repose  : 
Then  to  sleep  where  daisies  grow, 
While  the  Summers  come  and  go. 


THE  MYSTERY 

THOU  art  not  dead  ;  thou  art  not  gone 

to  dust ; 
No  line  of   all   thy  loveliness   shall 

fall 
To  formless  ruin,  smote  by  Time,  and 

thrust 

Into    the    solemn    gulf    that  covers 
all. 

Thor:  canst  not  wholly  perish,  though 

the  sod 
Sink  with   its  violets   closer  to   thy 

breast ; 

Though  by  the  feet  of  generations  trod, 
The   headstone   crumbles   from   thy 
place  of  rest. 


The  marvel  of  thy  beauty  cannot  di<; ; 
The  sweetness  of /  thy  presence  shall 

not  fade ; 
Earth  gave  not  all  the  glory  of  thine 

eye,  — 

Death  may  not  keep  what  Death  has 
never  made. 

It  was  not  thine,  that  forehead  strange 

and  cold, 
Nor  those  dumb  lips,  they  hid  beneath 

the  snow ; 
Thy  heart   would   throb  beneath  that 

passive  fold, 

Thy  hands  for  me  that  stony  clasp 
forego. 

But  thou  hadst  gone,  —  gone  from  the 

dreary  land, 
Gone  from   the  storms  let  loose  on 

every  Hill, 
Lured  by  the  sweet  persuasion   of  a 

hand 

Which  leads  thee  somewhere  in  the 
distance  still. 

Where'er  thou  art,  I  know  thou  wearest 

yet 

The  same  bewildering  beauty,  sancti 
fied 
By  calmer  joy,  and  touched  with  soft 

regret 

For  him  who  seeks,  but  cannot  reach 
thy  side. 

I  keep  for  thee  the  living  love  of  old, 
And  seek  thy  place  in  Nature,  as  a 

child 

Whose  hand  is  parted  from   his   play 
mate's  hold, 

Wanders  and  cries  along  a  lonesome 
wild. 

When,  in  the  watches  of  my  heart,  I 

hear 

The  messages  of  purer  life,  and  know 
The  footsteps   of   thy   spirit  lingering 

near, 

The  darkness   hides  the  way  that  I 
should  go. 

Canst  thou  not  bid  the  empty  realms 

restore 
That  form,  the  symbol  of  thy  heavenly 

part  ? 

Or  on  the  fields  of  barren  silence  pour 
That  voice,  the  perfect  music  of  thy 
heart  7 


IN   THE   MEADOWS. 


99 


Oh  once,  once  bending  to  these  widowed 

lips, 
Take  back  the  tender  warmth  of  life 

from  me, 
Or    let    thy    kisses    cloud   with   swift 

eclipse         . 

The  light  of  mine,  and  give  me  death 
with  tbee  ? 


A  PICTURE. 

SOMETIMES,  in  sleeping  dreams  of  night, 

Or  waking  dreams  of  day, 
The  selfsame  picture  seeks  my  sight 

And  will  not  fade  away. 

I  see  a  valley,  cold  and  still, 

Beneath  a  leaden  sky : 
The  woods  are  leafless  on  the  hill, 

The  fields  deserted  lie. 

The  gray  November  eve  benumbs 
The  damp  and  cheerless  air ; 

A  wailing  from  the  forest  comes, 
As  of  the  world's  despair. 

But  on  the  verge  of  night  and  storm, 

Far  down  the  valley's  line, 
I  see  the  lustre,  red  and  warm, 

Of  cottage  windows  shine. 


And 


their 


men   are  housed,  and 
place 

In  snug  and  happy  rest, 
Save  one,  who  walks  with  weary  pace 
The  highway's  frozen  breast. 

His  limbs,  that  tremble  with  the  cold, 
Shrink  from  the  coming  storm ; 

But  underneath  his  mantle's  fold 
His  heart  beats  quick  and  warm. 

Lie  hears  the  laugh  of  those  who  sit 

In  Home's  contented  air ; 
He  sees  the  busy  shadows  flit 

Across  the  window's  glare. 

His  heart  is  full  of  love  unspent, 

His  eyes  are  wet  and  dim  ; 
For  in  those  circles  of  content 

There  is  no  room  for  him. 

He  clasps  his  hands  and  looks  above ; 

He  makes  the  bitter  cry  : 
'  All,  all  are  happy  in  their  love,  — 

All  are  beloved  but  I !  " 


Across  no  threshold  streams  the  light, 

Expectant,  o'er  his  track  ; 
No  door  is  opened  on  the  night, 

To  bid  him  welcome  back. 

There  is  no  other  man  abroad 

In  all  the  wintry  vale, 
And  lower  upon  his  lonely  road 

The  darkness  and  the  gale. 

I  see  him  through  the  doleful  shades 
Press  onward,  sad  and  slow, 

Till  from  my  dream  the  picture  fades, 
And  from  my  heart  the  woe. 


IN  THE  MEADOWS. 

I  LIE  in  the  summer  meadows, 

In  the  meadows  all  alone, 
With  the  infinite  sky  above  me, 

And  the  sun  on  his  midday  throne. 

The  smell  of  the  flowering  grasses 

Is  sweeter  than  any  rose, 
And  a  million  happy  insects 

Sing  in  the  warm  repose. 

The  mother  lark  that  is  brooding 
Feels  the  sun  on  her  wings, 

And  the  deeps  of  the  noonday  glitter 
With  swarms  of  fairy  things. 

From  the  billowy  green  beneath  me 
To  the  fathomless  blue  above, 

The  creatures  of  God  are  happy 
In  the  warmth  of  their  summer  lova 

The  infinite  bliss  of  Nature 

I  feel  in  every  vein  ; 
The  light  and  the  life  of  Summer 

Blossom  in  heart  and  brain. 

But  darker  than  any  shadow 
By  thunder-clouds  unfurled, 

The  awful  truth  arises, 

That  Death  is  in  the  world  ! 

And  the  sky  may  beam  as  ever, 
And  never  a  cloud  be  curled ; 

And  the  airs  be  living  odors, 
But  Death  is  in  the  world  ! 

Out  of  the  deeps  of  sunshine 
The  invisible  bolt  is  hurled : 

There  's  life  in  the  summer  meadcwi, 
But  Death  is  in  the  world  ! 


100 


ROMANCES   AND   LYRICS. 


"DOWN  IN  THE  DELL  I  WAN 
DERED." 

DOWN  in  the  dell  I  wandered, 

The  loneliest  of  our  dells, 
Where  grow  the  lowland  lilies, 

Dropping  their  foam- white  bells, 
And  the  brook  among  the  grasses 

Toys  with  its  sand  and  shells. 

Fair  were  the  meads  and  thickets 
And  sumptuous  grew  the  trees, 

And  the  folding  hills  of  harvest 

Were  thrilled  with  the  rippling  breeze, 

But  I  heard  beyond  the  valley, 
The  hum  of  the  plunging  seas. 

The  birds  and  the  vernal  grasses, 
They  wooed  me  sweetly  and  long, 

But  the  magic  of  ocean  called  me, 
Murmuring  free  and  strong, 

And  the  voice  of  the  peaceful  valley 
Mixed  with  the  billow's  song  ! 

"  Stay  in  the  wood's  embraces  ! 

Stay  in  the  dell's  repose  ! " 
"  Float  on  the  limitless  azure, 

Flecked  with  its  foamy  snows  !  " 
These  were  the  nattering  voices, 

Mingled  in  musical  close. 

Bliss  in  the  soft,  green  shelter, 
Fame  on  the  boundless  blue  ; 

Free  with  the  winds  of  the  ages, 
Nestled  in  shade  and  dew  : 

Which  shall  I  yield  forever  ? 
Which  shall  I  clasp  and  woo  1 


SONG. 

THEY  call  thee  false  as  thou  art  fair, 

They  call  thee  fair  and  free,  — 
A  creature  pliant  as  the  air 

And  changeful  as  the  sea  : 
But  I,  who  gaze  with  other  eyes,  — 

Who  stand  and  watch  afar,  — 
Behold  thee  pure  as  yonder  skies 

And  steadfast  as  a  star ! 

Thine  is  a  rarer  nature,  born 

To  rule  the  common  crowd, 
And  thou  dost  lightly  laugh  to  scorn 

The  hearts  before  thee  bowed. 
Thou  dreamest  of  a  different  love 

Than  comes  to  such  as  these  ; 
That  soars  as  high  as  heaven  above 

Their  shallow  sympathies. 


A  star  that  shines  with  nickering  spark, 

Thou  dost  not  wane  away, 
But  shed'st  adown  the  purple  dark 

The  fulness  of  thy  ray : 
A  rose,  whose  odors  freely  part 

At  every  zephyr's  will, 
Thou  keep'st  within  thy  folded  heart 

Its  virgin  sweetness  still ! 


THE  PHANTOM. 

AGAIN  I  sit  within  the  mansion, 

In  the  old,  familiar  seat ; 
And  shade  and  sunshine   chase   each 
other 

O'er  the  carpet  at  my  feet. 

But  the  sweet-brier's  arms  have  wrestled 
upwards 

In  the  summers  that  are  past, 
And  the  willow  trails  its  branches  lower 

Than  when  I  saw  them  last. 

They  strive  to  shut  the  sunshine  wholly 
From  out  the  haunted  room  ; 

To  fill  the  house,  that  once  was  joyful, 
With  silence  and  with  gloom. 

And  many  kind,  remembered  faces 
Within  the  doorway  come,  — 

Voices,  that  wake  the  sweeter  music 
Of  one  that  now  is  dumb. 

They  sing,  in  tones  as  glad  as  ever, 
The  songs  she  loved  to  hear ; 

They  braid  the  rose  in  summer  gai'lands, 
Whose  flowers  to  her  were  dear. 

And  still,  her  footsteps  in  the  passage, 

Her  blushes  at  the  door, 
Her  timid  words  of  maiden  welcome, 

Come  back  to  me  once  more. 

And,  all  forgetful  of  my  sorrow, 

Unmindful  of  my  pain, 
I  think  she  has  but  newly  left  me, 

And  soon  will  come  again. 

She  stays  without,  perchance,  a  moment 
To  dress  her  dark-brown  hair ; 

I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  garments,  — 
Her  light  step  on  the  stair  ! 

O  fluttering  heart !  control  thy  tumult, 
Lest  eyes  profane  should  see 

My  cheeks  betray  the  rush  of  rapture 
Her  coming  brings  to  me  ! 


THE   GARDEN    OF   ROSES. 


101 


She  tarries  long  :  but  lo !  a  whisper 

Beyoiid  the  open  door, 
And,  gliding  through  the  quiet  sunshine, 

A  shadow  on  the  floor ! 

Ah  !  't  is  the  whispering  pine  that  calls 

me, 

The  vine,  whose  shadow  strays ; 
And  my  patient  heart  must  still  await 

her, 
Nor  chide  her  long  delays. 

But  my  heart  grows  sick  with  weary 
waiting, 

As  many  a  time  before  : 
Her  foot  is  ever  at  the  threshold, 

Yet  never  passes  o'er. 


SOLDIER'S  SONG. 
FROM  "FAUST." 

CASTLES  with  lofty 

Ramparts  and  towers, — 
Maidens  disdainful 

In  Beauty's  array,  — 

All  shall  be  ours ! 
Bold  is  the  venture, 

Splendid  the  pay ! 

Lads,  let  the  trumpets 

For  us  be  suing, 
Calling  to  pleasure, 

Calling  to  ruin ! 
Stormy  our  life  is ; 

Such  is  its  boon : 
Maidens  and  castles 

Capitulate  soon. 
Bold  is  the  venture, 

Splendid  the  pay ! 
And  the  soldiers  go  marching, 

Marching  away. 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  LAMENT. 

FROM   GOETHE. 

UP  yonder  on  the  mountain 
A  thousand  times  I  stand, 

Leant  on  my  crook,  and  gazing 
Down  on  the  valley-land. 

follow  the  flock  to  the  pasture ; 
My  little  dog  watches  them  still . 
1  have  come  below,  but  I  know  not 
How  I  descended  the  hill. 


The  beautiful  meadow  is  covered 
With  blossoms  of  every  hue  ; 

I  pluck  them,  alas !  without  knowing 
Whom  I  shall  give  them  to. 

I  seek,  in  the  rain  and  the  tempest, 

A  refuge  under  the  tree : 
Yonder  the  doors  are  fastened, 

And  all  is  a  dream  to  me. 

Right  over  the  roof  of  the  dwelling 

I  see  a  rainbow  stand  ; 
But  she  has  departed  forever, 

And  gone  far  out  in  the  land. 

Far  out  in  the  land,  and  farther, — 
Perhaps  to  an  alien  shore : 

Go  forward,  ye  sheep !  go  forward,  — 
The  heart  of  the  shepherd  is  sore. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  ROSES. 


FROM   TJHLAND. 

OF  the  beautiful  Garden  of  Roses 
I  will  sing,  with  your  gracious  leave  : 

There  the  dames  walked  forth  at  morn 
ing, 
And  the  heroes  fought  at  eve. 

"  My  Lord  is  King  of  the  country, 
But  I  am  the  Garden's  Queen ; 

His  crown  with  the  red  gold  sparkles, 
And  mine  with  the  rose's  sheen. 

"  So  hear  me,  ye  youthful  gallants, 
My  favorite  guardsmen  three ; 

The  garden  is  free  to  the  maidens, 
To  the  knights  it  must  not  be. 

"  They  would  trample  my  beautiful  roses, 
And  bring  me  trouble  enow,"  — 

Said  the  Queen,  as  she  walked  in  the 

morning, 
With  the  garland  on  her  brow. 

Then  went  the  three  young  gallants 
And  guarded  the  gate  about ; 

And  peacefully  blossomed  the  roses 
And  sent  their  odors  out. 

Now  came  three  fair  young  maidens, 

Virgins  that  knew  not  sin  : 
"  Ye  guardsmen,  ye  gallant  three  guards 
men, 

Open,  and  let  us  in ! " 


102 


ROMANCES   AND   LYRICS. 


And  when  they  had  gathered  the  roses, 
They  spake,  with  looks  forlorn : 

"  What  makes  our  hands  so  bloody 
Is  it  the  prick  of  the  thorn  1 " 

And  still  the  three  young  gallants 

Guarded  the  gate  about, 
And  peacefully  blossomed  the  roses, 

And  sent  their  odors  out. 

Now  came  upon  prancing  stallions 
Three  lawless  knights,  and  cried  : 

"  Ye  guardsmen,  ye  surly  three  guards 
men, 
Open  the  portal  wide ! " 

"  The  portal  is  shut  and  bolted : 
Our  naked  swords  will  teach 

That  the  price  of  the  roses  is  costly  ; 
Ye  must  pay  a  wound  for  each  !  " 

Then  fought  the  knights  and  the  gal 
lants, 

But  the  knights  had  the  victory, 
And  the  roses  were  torn  and  trampled, 

And  died  with  the  guardsmen  three. 

And  when  the  evening  darkened, 
The  Queen  came  by  with  her  train  : 

"  Now  that  my  roses  are  trampled 
And  my  faithful  guardsmen  slain, 

"  I  will  lay  them  on  leaves  of  roses, 

And  bury  them  solemnly  : 
And  where  was  the  Garden  of  Roses, 

The  Garden  of  Lilies  shall  be. 

"  But  who  will  watch  my  lilies, 
When  their  blossoms  open  white  1 

By  day  the  sun  shall  be  sentry, 
And    the    moon    and   the    stars    by 
night ! " 


THE  THREE  SONGS. 

FROM    UHLAND. 

KING  Siegfried  sat  in  his  lofty  hall : 

"  Ye  harpers !  who  sings  the  best  song 
of  all  ?  " 

Then  a  youth  stepped  forth  with  a  scorn 
ful  lip, 

The  harp  in  his  hand,  and  the  sword  at 
his  hip. 

'  Three  songs  I  know ;  but  this  first  song 
Thou,  0  King !  hast  forgotten  long  : 


Thou  hast  stabbed  my  brother  with  mur. 

derous  hand, — 
Hast  stabbed  my  brother  with  murder* 

ous  hand ! 

"  The  second  song  I  learned  aright 
In  the  midst  of  a  dark  and  stormy  night 
Thou  must  fight  with  me  for  life  or 

death, — 
Must  fight  with  me  for  life  or  death  !  " 

On  the  banquet-table  he  laid  his  harp, 
And  they  both  drew  out  their  swords  so 

sharp ; 
And  they  fought  in  the   sight  of   the 

harpers  all, 
Till  the  King  sank  dead  in  the  lofty  hall. 

"  And  now  for  the  third,  the  proudest, 

best! 

I  shall  sing  it,  sing  it,  and  never  rest : 
King    Siegfried    lies    in    his    red,    red 

blood,  — 
Siegfried  lies  in  his  red,  red  blood  ! " 


THE  SONG  OF  MIGNON. 

FROM    GOETHE. 

KNOWS'T  thou  the  land  where  citron- 
flowers  unfold  ? 

Through  dusky  foliage  gleams  the 
orange-gold ; 

Soft  breezes  float  beneath  the  dark-blue 
sky ; 

The  mvrtle  sleeps,  the  laurel  shoots  on 

high  ? 

Thither  —  that  land  dost  thou  not 
know? 

Would  I  with  thee,  0  my  Beloved,  go  ! 

Know'st  thou  the  house,  its  roof  on  pil 
lars  fair  ? 

The  long  hall  shines,  the  chambers 
glimmer  there  ; 

And  marble  statues  stand  and  gaze  on 
me : 

Poor  child,  they  say,  what  ill  was  done 

to  thee  ? 

Thither  —  that  house  dost  thou  not 
know  1 

Would  I  with  thee,  0  my  Protector,  go  . 

Know'st  thou  the  mountain  ?  Through 
the  cloud  it  soars  ; 

In  rolling  mist  the  mulo  his  path  ex 
plores  ; 


HARTZ-JOURNEY  IN  WINTER. 


103 


The  ancient  dragons  haunt  its  caverns 

deep, 
And  o'er  the  crashing  rock  the  torrents 

leap  1 
Thither  —  the  hills  dost  thou  not 

know  ? 
Our  pathway  leads :   O  Father,  let  us 

go  ! 


HARTZ-JOURNEY  IN  WINTER. 

FROM    GOETHE. 

THE  vulture  like  — 
Who,  on  heavy  clouds  of  morning 
With  quiet  pinion  poising, 
Keeps  watch  for  prey  — 
Hover,  my  sung ! 

For  a  God  hath 

Unto  each  his  path 

Fixed  beforehand, 

Which  the  fortunate 

Tread  till  the  happy 

Goal  is  reached : 

But  he,  the  wretched, 

Whose  heart  is  pinched  with  pain, 

He  struggles  vainly 

Against  the  restrictions 

Of  Fate's  thread  of  iron. 

Which  the  shears  still  unwelcome 

But  once  shall  slit. 

In  dusk  of  thickets 

Crowd  the  rough-coated  deer, 

And  with  the  sparrows 

Have  the  rich  already 

Buried  themselves  iu  muck  and  mire. 

Easy  the  chariot  to  follow 
Driven  by  Fortune's  hand, 
Easy  as  unto  the  troop 
Following  the  Prince's  entry 
Is  the  convenient  highway. 
But,  who  fares  on  by-paths  ? 

In  the  copse  he  loses  his  way, 
After  him  rustle 
The  branches  together, 
The  grass  springs  up  again, 
The  wilderness  hides  him. 

Ah,  his  pangs  who  shall  solace  — 
His,  whose  balm  becomes  poison  1 
Who  biii  hate  of  man 


Drank  from  very  abundance  of  love ! 

First  despised,  and  now  the  despiser, 

Thus  in  secret  he 

His  own  worth  consumes 

In  unsatisfying  self-love. 

Is  there  in  Thy  psalter, 
Father  of  Love,  but  a  tone 
Unto  his  ear  accessible, 
Then  refresh  Thou  his  heart, 
To  his  clouded  sight  reveal 
Where  are  the  thousand  fbuDUuns 
Near  to  the  thirsty  one 
In  the  Desert. 

Thou,  the  Creator  of  joys, 
Giving  the  fullest  cup  to  each, 
Favor  the  sons  of  the  chase, 
Tracking  signs  of  their  game 
With  reckless  ardor  of  youth, 
Murderous,  joyous, 
Late  avengers  of  losses, 
Which  the  peasant  so  vainly 
Fought  for  years  with  his  bludgeon, 

But  the  Solitary  fold 

In  clouds  that  are  golden.  I 

Entwine  with  winter-green, 

Till  the  rose  again  is  in  blossom, 

The  moistened  tresses, 

0  Love,  of  thy  Poet  ! 

With  thy  glimmering  flambeau 

Lightest  thou  him 

Through  the  waters  by  night, 

Over  fathomless  courses 

On  desolate  lowlands ; 

With  the  thousand  hues  of  the  morning 

Mak'st  thou  his  heart  glad  ; 

With  the  sting  of  the  storm 

Bear'st  thou  him  high  aloft : 

Winter-torrents  plunge  from  the  granite, 

In  psalms  he  singeth, 

An  altar  of  gratitude  sweet 

Is  for  him  the  perilous  summit's 

Snow-enshrouded  forehead, 

Which  with  circling  phantoms 

Crowned  the  faith  of  the  races. 

Thou  with  inscrutable  bosom  standest 

Mysterious  iu  revelation 

Above  the  astonished  world, 

From  clouds  down-looking 

On  all  its  kingdoms  and  splendid  shows 

Which  thou  from  the  veins  dost  water 

Of  brothers  beside  thee. 


CALIFORNIAN  BALLADS  AND 
POEMS. 


CALIFORNIA^  BALLADS  AND  POEMS. 


MANUELA. 

FROM   the   doorway,  Manuela,  in  the 

sunny  April  morn, 
Southward  looks,  along  the  valley,  over 

leagues  of  gleaming  corn  ; 
Where    the  mountain's  misty  rampart 

like  the  wall  of  Eden  towers, 
And  the  isles  of  oak  are  sleeping  on  a 

painted  sea  of  flowers. 

All  the  air  is  full  of  music,  for  the  win 
ter  rains  are  o'er, 

And  the  noisy  magpies  chatter  from  the 
budding  sycamore ; 

Blithely  frisk  unnumbered  squirrels, 
over  all  the  grassy  slope ; 

Where  the  airy  summits  brighten,  nim 
bly  leaps  the  antelope. 

Gentle  eyes  of  Manuela !  tell  me  where 
fore  do  ye  rest 

On  the  oak's  enchanted  islands  and  the 
flowery  ocean's  breast  ? 

Tell  me  wherefore,  down  the  valley,  ye 
have  traced  the  highway's  mark 

Far  beyond  the  belts  of  timber,  to  the 
mountain-shadows  dark  ? 

Ah,  the  fragrant  bay  may  blossom  and 

the  sprouting  verdure  shine 
With  the  tears  of  amber  dropping  from 

the  tassels  of  the  pine, 
And  the  morning's  breath   of   balsam 

lightly  brush  her  sunny  cheek, — 
Little  necketh  Manuela  of  the  tales  of 

Spring  they  speak. 

Whf.n  the  Summer's  burning  solstice 
on  the  mountain-harvests  glowed, 

She  had  watched  a  gallant  horseman 
riding  down  the  valley  road; 


Many  times  she  saw  him  turning,  look 
ing  back  with  parting  thrills, 

Till  amid  her  tears  she  lost  him,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  hills. 


Ere  the  cloudless  moons  were  over,  he 

had  passed  the  Desert's  sand, 
Crossed  the  rushing  Colorado  and  the 

wild  Apache  Land, 
And  his  laden  mules  were  driven,  when 

the  time  of  rains  began, 
With  the  traders  of  Chihuahua,  to  the 

Fair  of  San  Juan. 

Therefore  watches  Manuela, — therefore 

lightly  doth  she  start, 
When  the  sound  of  distant  footsteps 

seems  the  beating  of  her  heart ; 
Not  a  wind  the  green  oak  rustles  or  the 

redwood  branches  stirs, 
But  s^ie  hears  the  silver  jingle  of  his 

ringing  bit  and  spurs. 

Often,  out  the  hazy  distance,  come  the 

horsemen,  day  by  day, 
But  they  come  not  as  Bernardo,  —  she 

can  see  it,  far  away ; 
Well  she  knows  the  airy  gallop  of  his 

mettled  alazan, 
Light  as  any  antelope  upon  the  Hills  of 

Gavilan. 

She  would  know  him  'mid  a  thousand, 
by  his  free  and  gallant  air  ; 

By  the  f  eatly-knit  sarape,  such  as  wealthy 
traders  wear ; 

By  his  broidered  calzoneros  and  his  sad 
dle,  gayly  spread, 

With  its  cantle  rimmed  with  silver,  and 
its  horn  a  lion's  head. 


108 


CALIFORNIAN   BALLADS   AND   POEMS. 


None  like  him  the  light  riata  on  the 
maddened  bull  can  throw ; 

None  amid  the  mountain-canons  track 
like  him  the  stealthy  doe ; 

And  at  all  the  Mission  festals,  few  in 
deed  the  revellers  are 

Who  can  dance  with  him  the  jota,  touch 
with  him  the  gay  guitar. 

He  has  said  to  Manuela,  and  the  echoes 
linger  still 

In  the  cloisters  of  her  bosom,  with  a  se 
cret,  tender  thrill, 

When  the  bay  again  has  blossomed,  and 
the  valley  stands  in  corn, 

Shall  the  bells  of  Santa  Clara  usher  in 
the  wedding  morn. 

He  has  pictured  the  procession,  all  in 
holiday  attire, 

And  the  laugh  of  bridal  gladness,  when 
they  see  the  distant  spire  ; 

Then  their  love  shall  kindle  newly,  and 
the  world  be  doubly  fair 

In  the  cool,  delicious  crystal  of  the  sum 
mer  morning  air. 

Tender  eyes  of  Manuela  !    what   has 

dimmed  your  lustrous  beam  ? 
'T  is  a  tear  that  falls  to  glitter  on  the 

casket  of  her  dream. 
Ah,  the  eye  of  Love  must  brighten,  if 

its  watches  would  be  true, 
For  the  star  is  falsely  mirrored  iu  the 

rose's  drop  of  dew  ! 

But  her  eager  eyes  rekindle,  and  her 
breathless  bosom  thrills, 

As  she  sees  a  horseman  moving  in  the 
shadow  of  the  hills : 

Now  in  love  and  fond  thanksgiving  they 
may  loose  their  pearly  tides,  — 

'T  is  the  alazan  that  gallops,  't  is  Ber 
nardo's  self  that  rides ! 


THE  TIGHT  OF  PASO  DEL  MAR. 

GOSTT  and  raw  was  the  morning, 

A  fog  hung  over  the  seas, 
And  its  gray  skirts,  rolling  inland, 

Were  torn  by  the  mountain  trees  ; 
fcJo  sound  was  heard  but  the  dashing 

Of  waves  on  the  sandy  bar, 
?Vhen  Pablo  of  San  Diego 

Rode  down  to  the  Paso  del  Mar. 


The  pescadbr,  out  in  his  shallop, 

Gathering  his  harvest  so  wide, 
Sees  the  dim  bulk  of  the  headland 

Loom  over  the  waste  of  the  tide  ; 
He  sees,  like  a  white  thread,  the  pathway 

Wind  round  on  the  terrible  wall, 
Where  the  faint,  moving  speck  of  the 
rider 

Seems  hovering  close  to  its  fall. 

Stout  Pablo  of  San  Diego 

Rode  down  from  the  hills  behind  ; 
With  the  bells  on  his  gray  mule  tinkling 

He  sang  through  the  fog  and  wind. 
Under  his  thick,  misted  eyebrows 

Twinkled  his  eye  like  a  star, 
And  fiercer  he  sang  as  the  sea-winds 

Drove  cold  on  the  Paso  del  Mar. 

Now  Bernal,  the  herdsman  of  Chino, 

Had  travelled  the  shore  since  dawn, 
Leaving  the  ranches  behind  him  — 

Good  reason  had  he  to  be  gone  ! 
The  blood  was  still  red  on  his  dagger, 

The  fury  was  hot  in  his  brain, 
And  the  chill,  driving  scud  of  the  break 
ers 

Beat  thick  on  his  forehead  in  vain. 

With    his    poncho    wrapped    gloomily 

round  him, 

He  mounted  the  dizzying  road, 
And  the  chasms  and  steeps  of  the  head 
land 

Were  slippery  and  wet,  as  he  trod : 
Wild  swept  the  wind  of  the  ocean, 

Rolling  the  fog  from  afar, 
When  near  him  a  mule-bell  came  tink 
ling, 
Midway  on  the  Paso  del  Mar. 

"  Back !  "  shouted  Bernal,  full  fiercely, 
And    "  Back  !  "    shouted    Pablo,   in 

wrath, 

As  his  mule  halted,  startled  and  shrink 
ing, 

On  the  perilous  line  of  the  path. 
The  roar  of  devouring  surges 

Came  up  from  the  breakers'  hoarse 

war ; 
And  "  Back,   or   you   perish  !  "   cried 

Bernal, 
"  I  turn  not  on  Paso  del  Mar  !  " 

The  gray  mule  stood  firm  as  the  head 
land  : 
He  clutched  at  the  jingling  rein, 


THE  PINE  FOREST  OF  MONTEREY. 


109 


When  Pablo  rose  up  in  his  saddle 

And  smote  till  he  dropped  it  again. 
A  wild  oath  of  passion  swore  Bernal, 

And  brandished  his  dagger,  still  red, 
While  fiercely  stout  Pablo  leaned  for 
ward, 

And  fought    o'er    his   trusty  mule's 
head. 

They  fought  till  the  black  wall  below 
them 

Shone  red  through  the  misty  blast ; 
Stout  Pablo  then  struck,  leaning  farther, 

The  broa^  breast  of  Bernal  at  last. 
And,  frenzied  with  pain,  the  swart  herds 
man 

Closed  on  him  with  terrible  strength, 
And  jerked  him,  despite  of  his  struggles, 

Down  from  the  saddle  at  length. 

They  grappled  with  desperate  madness, 

On  the  slippery  edge  of  the  wall ; 
They  swayed  on  the  brink,  and  together 

Keeled  out  to  the  rush  of  the  fall. 
A  cry  of  the  wildest  death-anguish 

Rang  faint  through  the  mist  afar, 
And  the  riderless  mule  went  homeward 

From  the  fight  of  the  Paso  del  Mar. 


THE  PINE  FOREST  OF  MONTE 
REY. 

WHAT  point  of  Time,  uncbronicled,  and 

dim 
As  yon  gray  mist  that  canopies  your 

heads, 
Took  from  the  greedy  wave  and  gave 

the  sun 
Your  dwelling-place,  ye  gaunt  and  hoary 

Pines  ? 
When,  from  the  barren  bosoms  of  the 

hills, 
With   scanty   nurture,    did   ye    slowly 

climb, 
Of  these   remote  and  latest-fashioned 

shores 
The  first-born  forest  1     Titans  gnarled 

and  rough, 

Such  as  from  out  subsiding  Chaos  grew 
To  clothe  the  cold  loins  of  the  savage 

earth, 

What  fresh  commixture  of  the  elements, 
What  earliest  thrill  of  life,  the  stubborn 

soil 

Blow-mastering,  engendered  ye  to  give 
The  hills  a  mantle  and  the  wind  a  voice  ? 


Along  the   shore   ye  lift  your  rugged 

arms, 
Blackened  with  many  fires,  and  with 

hoarse  chant, — 
Unlike  the  fibrous  lute  your  co-mates 

touch 

In  elder  regions,  —  fill  the  awful  stops 
Between  the  crashing  cataracts  of  the 

surf. 
Have  ye  no  tongue,  in  all  your  sea  of 

sound, 

To  syllable  the  secret, —  no  still  voice 
To   give  your  airy   mytha  a  shadowy 

form, 

And  make  us  of  lost  centuries  of  lore 
The  rich  inheritors  ? 

The  sea-winds  pluck 
Your  mossy  beards,  and  gathering  aa 

they  sweep, 
Vex  your  high   heads,  and  with  your 

sinewy  arms 

Grapple  and  toil  in  vain.    A  deeper  roar, 
Sullen  and  cold,  and  rousing  into  spells 
Of  stormy  volume,  is  your  sole  reply. 
Anchored  in  firm-set  rock,  ye  ride  the 

blast, 
And    from    the    promontory's    utmost 

verge 
Make  signal  o'er   the  waters.      So   ye 

stood, 
When,  like  a  star,  behind   the  lonely 

sea, 
Far  shone  the  white  speck  of  Grijalva's 

sail ; 
And  when,   through   driving  fog,   the 

breaker's  sound 
Frighted    Otondo's    men,    your    spicy 

breath 
Played  as  in  welcome  round  their  rusty 

helms, 
And  backward  from  its  staff  shook  out 

the  folds 
Of  Spain's  emblazoned  banner. 

Ancient  Pines, 

Ye  bear  no  record  of  the  years  of  man. 

Spring  is  your  sole  historian,  —  Spring, 
that  paints 

These  savage  shores  with  hues  of  Para 
dise  ; 

That  decks  your  branches  with  a  fresher 
green, 

And  through  your  lonely,  far  canadas 
pours 

Her  floods  of  bloom,  r.  vers  of  opal  dye 

That  wander  down  to  lakes  and  widea 
ing  seas 


110 


CALIFOENIAN  BALLADS  AND  POEMS. 


Of  blossom  and  of  fragrance,  —  laugh 
ing  Spring, 
That  with  her  wanton  blood  refills  your 

veins, 

And  weds  ye  to  your  juicy  youth  again 
With  a  new  ring,  the  while  your  rifted 

bark 
Drops  odorous  tears.    Your  knotty  fibres 

yield 

To  the  light  touch  of  her  unfailing  pen, 
As  freely  as  the  lupin'a  yjolet  cup. 
Ye  keep,  close-locked,  R3te  memories  of 

her  stay, 

As  in  their  shells  the  avelones  keep 
Morn's  rosy  flush  and  moonlight's  pearly 

glow. 
The  wild  northwest,  that  from  Alaska 

sweeps, 

To  drown  Point  Lobos  with  the  icy  scud 
And  white    sea-foam,   may   rend   your 

boughs  and  leave 

Their  blasted  antlers  tossing  in  the  gale ; 
Your  steadfast  hearts  are  mailed  against 

the  shock, 

And  on  their  annual  tablets  naught  in 
scribe 

Of  such  rude  visitation.     Ye  are  still 
The  simple  children  of  a  guiltless  soil, 
And  in  your  natures  show  the  sturdy 

grain 

That  passion  cannot  jar,  nor  force  re 
lax, 
Nor  aught  but  sweet  and  kindly  airs 

compel 

To  gentler  mood.   No  disappointed  heart 
Has  sighed  its  bitterness  beneath  your 

shade ; 

No  angry  spirit  ever  came  to  make 
Your  silence  its  confessional ;  no  voice, 
Grown  harsh  in  Crime's  great  market 
place,  the  world, 
Tainted  with  blasphemy  your  evening 

hush 

And  aromatic  air.     The  deer  alone,  — 
The  ambushed  hunter  that  brings  down 

the  deer,  — 

The  fisher  wandering  on  the  misty  shore 
To    watch    sea  -  lions    wallow    in    the 

flood,  — 
The  shout,  the  sound  of  hoofs  that  chase 

and  fly, 
When  swift  vaqueros,  dashing  through 

the  herds, 
Ride  down  the  angry  bull,  —  perchance, 

the  song 
Borne  Indian   heired  of  long-forgotten 

sires,  — 
Disturb  your  solemn  chorus. 


Stately  Pines, 
But  few  more  years  arcund  the  promon 

tory 
Your  chant  will  meet  the  thunders  of 

the  sea. 
No  more,  a  barrier  to  the  encroaching 

sand, 
Against  the  surf  ye  '11  stretch  defiant 

arm, 
Though  with   its  onset   and  besieging 

shock 
Your  firm  knees  tremble.     Never  more 

the  wind 
Shall  pipe   shrill   music  through  your 

mossy  beards, 
Nor  sunset's  yellow  blaze  athwart  your 

heads 
Crown  all  the  hills  with  gold.     Your 

race  is  past : 

The  mystic  cycle,  whose  unnoted  birth 
Coeval  was  with  yours,  has  run  its  sands, 
And  other  footsteps  from  these  changing 

shores 
Frighten  its  haunting  Spirit.     Men  will 

come 

To  vex  your  quiet  with  the  din  of  toil ; 
The  smoky  volumes  of  the  forge  will 

stain 
This  pure,  sweet  air;   loud  keels  will 

ride  the  sea, 
Dashing    its     glittering    sapphire    into 

foam ; 
Through  all  her  green  canadas  Spring 

will  seek 
Her  lavish  blooms  in  vain,  and  clasping 

ye, 

0  mournful  Pines,  within  her  glowing 

arms, 

Will  weep  soft  rains  to  find  ye  fallen  low. 
Fall,   therefore,  •  yielding    to   the   fiat ! 

Fall, 
Ere  the  maturing  soil,  whose  first  dull 

life 
FeU  your  belated   germs,   be  rent  and 

seamed ! 
Fall,  like  the  chiefs  ye  sheltered,  stern, 

unbent, 
Your  gray   beards    hiding    memorable 

soars ! 

The  winds  will  mourn  ye,  and  the  bar 
ren  hills 
Whose  breast  ye  clothed  ;  and  when  the 

pauses  come 
Between  the  crashing  cataracts  of  the 

surf, 

A  funeral  silence,  terrible,  profound, 
Will  make  sad  answer  to  the  listening 

sea. 


THE   SUMMER   CAMP. 


Ill 


EL   CANELO. 


Now  saddle  EL  CANELO  !  —  the  freshen 
ing  wind  of  morn, 

Down  in  the  flowery  vega,  is  stimng 
through  the  corn ; 

The  thin  smoke  of  the  ranches  grows 
red  with  coming  day, 

And  the  steed  is  fiercely  stamping,  in 
haste  to  be  away. 


My  glossy-limbed  Canelo,  thy  neck  is 

curved  in  pride, 
Thy  slender  ears  pricked  forward,  thy 

nostril  straining  wide  ; 
And  as  thy  quick  neigh  greets  me,  and 

I  catch  thee  by  the  mane, 
I  'm  off  with  tbe  winds  of  morning,  — 

the  chieftain  of  the  plain ! 


I  feel  the  swift  air  whirring,  and   see 

along  our  track, 
From  the  flinty-paved  sierra,  the  sparks 

go  streaming  back ; 
And  I  clutch  my  rifle  closer,  as  we  sweep 

the  dark  defile, 
Where  the   red    guerillas   ambush  for 

many  a  lonely  mile. 


They  reach  not  El  Canelo ;  with  the 
swiftness  of  a  dream 

We  've  passed  the  hleak  Nevada,  and 
San  Fernando's  stream ; 

But  where,  on  sweeping  gallop,  my  bul 
let  backward  sped, 

The  keen-eyed  mountain  vultures  will 
wheel  above  the  dead. 


On !  on,  my  brave  Canelo !  we  've  dashed 
the  sand  and  snow 

From  peaks  upholding  heaven,  from  des 
erts  far  below,  — 

W^e  're  thundered  through  the  forest, 
while  the  crackling  branches  rang, 

And  trooping  elks,  affrighted,  from  lair 
and  covert  sprang. 


We  've   swum   the   swollen    torrent,  — 

we  've  distanced  in  the  race 
The  baying  wolves  of  Finos,  that  panted 

with  the  chase ; 
And  still  thy  mane  streams  backward,  at 

every  thrilling  bound, 
And  still  thy  measured  hoof-stroke  beats 

with  its  morning  sound  1 


The  seaward  winds  are  wailing  through 
Santa  Barbara's  pines, 

And  like  a  sheathless  sabre,  the  far  Pa 
cific  shines ; 

Hold  to  thy  speed,  my  arrow  !  at  night 
fall  thou  shalt  lave 

Thy  hot  and  smoking  haunches  beneath 
his  silver  wave  ! 


My  head  upon  thy  shoulder,  along  the 

sloping  sand 
We  '11  sleep  as  trusty  brothers,  from  out 

the  mountain  land  ; 
The  pines  will  sound  in  answer  to  the 

surges  on  the  shore, 
And  in  our  dreams,  Canelo,  we  '11  make 

the  journey  o'er. 


THE  SUMMER  CAMP. 

HERE  slacken  rein  ;  here  let  the  dusty 

mules 
Unsaddled  graze !     The  shadows  of  the 

oaks 
Are  on  our  brows,  and  through  their 

knotted  boles 
We  see  the  blue  round  of  the  boundless 

plain 
Vanish  in  glimmering  heat :  these  aged 

oaks, 

The  island  speck  that  beckoned  us  afar 
Over  the  burning  level,  — as  we  came, 
Spreading  to  shore  and  cape,  and  bays 

that  ran 
To  leafy  headlands,   balanced  on  tha 

haze, 
Faint  and  receding  as  a  cloud  in  air. 

The  mules  may  roam  unsaddled :  wa 

will  lie 
Beneath  the  mighty  trees,  whose  shade 

like  dew 


112 


CALIFORNIAN  BALLADS  AND  POEMS. 


Poured  from  the  urns  of  Twilight,  dries 

the  sweat 
Of  sunburnt  brows,  and  on  the  heavy 

lid 
And  heated  eyeball  sheds  a  balm,  than 

sleep 
Fa-    sweeter.      We    have    done    with 

travel,  —  we 
Art  weary  now,  who  never  dreamed  of 

Rest, 

For  until  now  did  never  Rest  unbar 
Her  palace-doors,  nor  until  now  our  ears 
The  silence  drink,  beyond  all  melodies 
Of  all  imagined  sound,  that  wraps  her 

realm. 

Here,  where  the  desolating  centuries 
Have  left  no  mark ;  where  noises  never 

came 

From  the  far  world  of  battle  and  of  toil ; 
Where  God  looks  down  and  sends  no 

thunderbolt 

To  smite  a  human  wrong,  for  all  is  good, 
She  finds  a  refuge.  We  will  dwell  with 

her. 

No  more  of  travel,  where  the  flaming 

sword 
Of  the  great  sun  divides  the  heavens ; 

no  more 

Of  climbing  over  jutty  steeps  that  swim 
In  driving  sea-mist,  where  the  stunted 

tree 
Slants  inland,  mimicking  the  stress  of 

winds 

When  wind  is  none  ;  of  plain  and  steam 
ing  marsh 
Where  the  dry  bulrush  crackles  in  the 

heat  ; 
Of  camps  by  starlight  in  the  columned 

vault 

Of  sycamores,  and  the  red,  dancing  fires 
That  build  a  leafy  arch,  efface  and  build, 
And  sink  at  last,  to  let  the  stars  peep 

through ; 
Of  canons  grown  with  pine  and  folded 

deep 
In    golden    mountain-sides  ;    of     airy 

sweeps 

Of  mighty  landscape,  lying  all  alone 
Like  some  deserted  world.    They  tempt 

no  more. 
It  is  enough  that  such  things  were :  too 

blest, 
0  comrades  mine,  to  lie  in  Summer's 

arms, 
Lodged  in  her  Camp  of  Rest,  we  will 

not  dream 
That  they  may  vex  us  more. 


The  sun  goes  down  : 

The  dun  mules  wander  idly :  motionless 

Beneath  the  stars,  the  heavy  foliage 
lifts 

Its  rich,  round  masses,  silent  as  a  cloud 

That  sleeps  at  midday  on  a  mountain 
peak. 

All  through  the  long,  delicious  night  no 
stir 

Is  in  the  leaves ;  spangled  with  broken 
gleams, 

Before  the  pining  Moon,  —  that  fain 
would  drop 

Into  the  lap  of  this  deep  quiet,  —  swerve 

Eastward  the  shadows  :  Day  comes  on 
again. 

Where  is  the  life  we  led  1  Whither 
hath  fled 

The  turbulent  stream  that  brought  ua 
hither  ?  How, 

So  full  of  sound,  so  lately  dancing  down 

The  mountains,  turbid,  fretted  into 
foam,  — 

How  has  it  slipped,  with  scarce  a  gurg 
ling  coil, 

Into  this  calm  transparence,  noise  or 
wind 

Hath  ruffled  never  •?  Ages  past,  per 
chance, 

Such  wild  turmoil  was  ours,  or  did 
some  Dream 

Malign,  that  last  night  nestled  in  the  oak, 

Whisper  our  ears,  when  not  a  star  could 
see1? 

Give  o'er  the  fruitless  doubt :  we  will 
not  waste 

One  thought  of  rest,  nor  spill  one  radi 
ant  drop 

Erom  the  full  goblet  of  this  summer 
balm. 

Day  after  day  the  mellow  sun  slides  o'er, 
Night  after   night  the   mellow  moon. 

The  clouds 
Are  laid,  enchanted  :  soft  and  bare,  the 

heavens 
Fold  to  their  breast  the  dozing  Earth, 

that  lies 
In  languor  of  deep  bliss.     At  times,  a 

breath, 

Remnant  of  gales  far  off,  forgotten  now, 
Rustles   the  never-fading  leaves,   then 

drops 

Affrighted  into  silence.     Near  a  slough 
Of  dark,  still  water,  in  the  early  morn 
The  shy  coyotas  prowl,  or  trooping  elk 
From  the  close  covert  of  the  bulrush- 
fields 


THE   SUMMER   CAMP. 


113 


Their  dewy   antlers   toss  :    nor   other 

sight, 

Save  when  the  falcon,  poised  on  wheel 
ing  wings, 
His  bright  eye  on  the  burrowing  coney, 

cuts 
His  arrowy  plunge.    Along  the  distant 

trail, 
Dim    with    the   heat,    sometimes    the 

miners  go, 
Bearded  and  rough,  the  swart  Sonorians 

drive 

Thsir  laden  asses,  or  vaqueros  whirl 
The  lasso's  coil    and    carol    many    a 

song, 
Native  to  Spanish  hills.    As  when  we 

lie 
On  the  soft  brink  of  Sleep,  not  pillowed 

quite 

To  blest  forgetfulness,  some  dim  ar 
ray 
Of  masking  forms  in  long  procession 

comes, 
A  sweet  disturbance  to  the   poppied 

sense, 
That  will  not  cease,  but  gently  holds  it 

back 
From  slumber's  haven,  so  their  figures 

pass, 
With  such  disturbance  cloud  the  blessed 

calm, 

And  hold  our  beings,  ready  to  slip  forth 
O'er  unmolested  seas,  still  rocking  near 
The  coasts  of  Action. 

Other  dreams  are  ours, 
Of  shocks  that  were,  or  seemed ;  whereof 

our  souls 
Feel  the  subsiding  lapse,  as  feels  the 

sand 

Of  tropic  island-shores  the  dyiug  pulse 
Of  storms  that  racked  the  Northern  sea. 

My  Soul, 
I  do  believe  that  thou  hast  toiled  and 

striven, 
And  hoped  and  suffered  wrong.    I  do 

believe 
Great  aims  were  thine,  deep  loves  and 

fiery  hates, 
And  though  I  may  have  lain  a  thousand 

years 
Beneath  these  Oaks,  the  baffled  trust  of 

Youth, 
Thy  first  keen  sorrow,  brings  a  gentle 

pang 
To  temper  joy.     Nor   will   the  joy  I 

drank 

To  wild  intoxication,  quit  my  heart : 
8 


It  was  no  dream  that  still  has  power  to 

droop 

The  soft-suffusing  lid,  and  lift  desire 
Beyond   this  rapt   repose.     No  dream, 

dear  love ! 
For  thou  art  with  me  in  our  Camp  of 

Peace. 

0  Friend,  whose  history  is  writ  in  deeds 

That  make  your  life  a  marvel,  come  no 
gleams 

Of  past  adventure,  echoes  of  old  storms, 

And  Battle's  tingling  hum  of  flying 
shot, 

To  touch  your  easy  blood  and  tempt 
you  o'er 

The  round  of  yon  blue  plain  ?  Or  have 
they  lost, 

Heroic  days,  the  virtue  which  the  heart 

That  did  their  hest  rejoicing,  proved  so 
high? 

Back  through  the  long,  long  cycles  of 
our  rest 

Your  memory  travels  :  through  this 
hush  you  hear 

The  Gila's  dashing,  feel  the  yawning 
jaws 

Of  black  volcanic  gorges  close  you  in 

On  waste  and  awful  tracts  of  wilder 
ness, 

Which  other  than  the  eagle's  cry,  or 
bleat 

Of  mountain-goat,  hear  not :  the  scorch 
ing  sand 

Eddies  around  the  tracks  your  fainting 
mules 

Leave  in  the  desert:  thorn  and  cactus 
pierce 

Your  bleeding  limbs,  and  stiff  with  rag 
ing  thirst 

Your  tongue  forgets  its  office.  Leave 
untried 

That  cruel  trail,  and  leave  the  wintry 
hills 

And  leave  the  tossing  sea  !  The  Sum 
mer  here 

Builds  us  a  tent  of  everlasting  calm. 

How  shall  we  wholly  sink  our  lives  in 

thee, 
Thrice-blessed  Deep  ?    O  many-natured 

Soul, 
Chameleon-like,  that,  steeped  in  every 

phase 
Of  wide  existence,  tak'st   the   hue  of 

each, 
Here  with  the  silent  Oaks  and   azure 

Air 


114 


CALIFOENIAN  BALLADS  AND  POEMS. 


Incorporate  grow !     Here  loosen  one  by 

one 
Thy  vexing  memories,  burdens  of  the 

Past, 

Till  all  unrest  be  laid,  and  strong  De 
sire 
Sleeps  on  his  nerveless  arm.    Content  to 

find 

In  liberal  Peace  thy  being's  high  result 
And  crown  of  aspiration,  gather  all 
The  dreams  of  sense,  the  Teachings  of 

the  mind 

For  ampler  issues  and  dominion  vain, 
To  fold   them  on  her  bosom,  happier 

there 

Than  in  exultant  action :  as  a  child 
Forgets    his    meadow    butterflies    and 

flowers, 
Upon  his  mother's  breast. 

It  may  not  be. 
Not  in   this  Camp,  in  these  enchanted 

Trees, 
But  in  ourselves,  must  lodge  the  calm 

we  seek, 
Ere  we  can   fix    it    here.    We    cannot 

take 
From  outward  nature  power  to  snap  the 

curse 
Which  clothed  our  birth;  and  though 

't  were  easier 
This  hour  to  die  than  yield  the  blessed 

cup 
Wherefrom  our  hearts  divinest  comfort 

draAv, 
It  clothes  us  yet,  and  yet  shall  drive  us 

forth 
To  breast  the  world.     Then  come :  we 

will  not  bide 

To  tempt  a  ruin  to  this  paradise, 
Fulfilling  Destiny.     A  mighty  wind 
Would   gather  on   the  plain,  a    cloud 

arise 
To  blot  the  sky,  with  thunder  in  its 

heart, 
And  the  black  column  of  the  whirlwind 

spin 
Out  of  the  cloud,  straight  downward  to 

this  grove, 
Take  by   their   heads   the  shuddering 

trees,  and  wrench 
With  fearful   clamor,  limb  from  limb, 

till  Rest 
Should    flee    forever.    Rather    set    at 

once 

Our  faces  towards  the  noisy  world  again, 
And  gird  our  loins  for  action.     Let  us 

go! 


THE  BISON  TRACK. 

i. 

STRIKE  the  tent !  the  sun  has  risen ;  not 

a  vapor  streaks  the  dawn, 
And  the  frosted  prairie  brightens  to  the 

westward,  far  and  wan  : 
Prime  afresh  the  trusty  rifle,  —  sharpen 

well  the  hunting  spear  — 
For  the  frozen  *sod  is  trembling,  and  a 

noise  of  hoofs  I  hear ! 


Fiercely  stamp  the  tethered  horses,  as 
they  snuff  the  morning's  fire ; 

Their  impatient  heads  are  tossing,  and 
they  neigh  with  keen  desire. 

Strike  the  tent !  the  saddles  wait  us,  — 
let  the  bridle-reins  be  slack, 

For  the  prairie's  distant  thunder  has  be 
trayed  the  bison's  track. 


See !  a  dusky  line   approaches  :   hark, 

the  onward-surging  roar, 
Like  the  din  of  wintry  breakers  on  a 

sounding  wall  of  shore! 
Dust  and  sand  behind  them  whirling, 

snort  the  foremost  of  the  van, 
And  their  stubborn  horns  are  clashing 

through  the  crowded  caravan. 


Now  the  storm  is  down  upon  us  :  let  the 
maddened  horses  go ! 

We  shall  ride  the  living  whirlwind, 
though  a  hundred  leagues  it  blow! 

Though  the  cloudy  manes  should  thick 
en,  and  the  red  eyes'  angry  glare 

Lighten  round  us  as  we  gallop  through 
the  sand  and  rushing  air  ! 


Myriad  hoofs  will  scar  the  prairie,  in  our 
wild,  resistless  race, 

And  a  sound,  like  mighty  waters,  thun 
der  down  the  desert  space  : 

Yet  the  rein  may  not  be  tightened,  nor 
the  rider's  eye  look  back  — 

Death  to  him  whose  speed  should  slack 
en,  on  the  maddened  bison't 
track ! 


THE  BISON   TRACK. 


115 


Now  the  trampling  herds  are  threaded, 

and  the  chase  is  close  arid  warm 
For  the  giant  bull  that  gallops  in  the 

edges  of  the  storm  : 
Swiftly  hurl  the  whizzing  lasso,  —  swing 

your  rifles  as  we  run  : 
Bee !   the   dust   is   red   behind   him,  — 

shout,  iny  comrades,  he  is  won  1 


Look  not  on  him  as  he  staggers,  —  't  is 

the  last  shot  he  will  need  ! 
More  shall  fall,  among  his  fellows,  ere 

we  run  the  mad  stampede, — 
Ere  we  stem  the  briuded  breakers,  while 

the  wolves,  a  hungry  pack, 
Howl  around  each  grim-eyed  carcass,  on 

the  bloody  Bison  Track ! 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


EAKLIER  POEMS. 


THE  HAKP  :    AN  ODE. 


WHEN  bleak  winds  through  the  North 
ern  pines  were  sweeping, 
Some    hero-skald,   reclining    on    the 

sand, 
Attuned  it  first,  the  chords  harmonious 

keeping 
With    murmuring    forest    and   with 

moaning  strand : 
And  when,  at  night,  the  horns  of  mead 

foamed  over, 
And  torches  flared  around  the  wassail 

board, 
It  breathed  no  song  of  maid,  nor  sigh 

of  lover, 
It  rang  aloud   the   triumphs  of  the 

sword  ! 
It  mocked  the  thunders  of  the  ice-ribbed 

ocean, 
With  clenched  hands   beating   back 

the  dragon's  prow; 

It  gave  Berserker  arms  their  battle  mo 
tion, 

And  swelled  the  red  veins  on  the  Vi 
king's  brow ! 


No  myrtle,  plucked  in  dalliance,  ever 

sheathed  it, 

To  melt  the  savage  ardor  of  its  flow  ; 
The  only  gauds  wherewith  its  lord  en- 
wreathed  it, 

The  lusty  fir  and  Druid  mistletoe. 
Thus  bound,  it  kept  the  old,  accustomed 

cadence, 

Whether  it  pealed  through  slumber 
ous  ilex  bowers 

III  stormy  wooing  of  Byzantine  maidens, 
Or  shook  Trinacria's  languid  lap  of 
flowers ; 


Whether  Genseric's  conquering  inarch 

it  chanted, 
Till  cloudy  Atlas  rang  with  Gothic 

staves, 
Or  where  gray  Calpe's  pillared  feet  are 

planted, 

Died  grandly  out  upon  the  unknown 
waves ! 


Not  unto  Scania's  bards  alone  belonging, 
The  craft  that  loosed  its  tongues  of 

changing  sound, 
For  Ossian  played,  and  ghosts  of  heroes, 

thronging, 
Leaned  on  their   spears   above    the 

misty  mound. 
The   Cambrian  eagle,  round  his  eyrie 

winging, 

Heard  the  wild  chant  through  mount 
ain-passes  rolled, 
When  bearded  throats  chimed  in  with 

mighty  singing, 
And     monarchs     listened,    in     their 

torques  of  gold : 
Its  dreary  wail,  blent  with  the  sea-mews' 

clangor, 
Surged  round  the  lonely  keep  of  Pen- 

maen-Mawr ; 

It  pealed  aloud,  in  battle's  glorions  an 
ger, 

Behind  the  banner  of    the  Blazing 
Star! 


The  strings  are  silent ;  who  shall  dare 

to  wake  them, 

Though  later  deeds  demand  their  liv 
ing  powers  ? 
Silent  in  other  lands,  what  hand  shall 

make  them 

Leap  as  of  old,  to  shape  the  songs  of 
ours? 


120 


EARLIER   POEMS. 


Here,  while  the  sapless  bulk  of  Europe 

moulders, 
Springs  the  rich  hlood  to  hero-veins 

unsealed, — 
Source  of  that  Will,  that  on  its  fearless 

shoulders 
Would  bear  the  world's  fate  lightly 

as  a  shield : 
Here  moves  a  larger  life,  to  grander 

measures 

Beneath  our  sky  and  through  our  for 
ests  rung ; 
Why  sleeps  the  harp,  forgetful  of  its 

treasures,  — 

Buried  in  songs  that  never  yet  were 
sung? 


Great,  solemn  songs,  that  with  majestic 

sounding 
Should  swell  the  Nation's  heart  from 

sea  to  sea ; 
Informed  with  power,  with  earnest  hope 

abounding 

And  prophecies  of  triumph  yet  to  be  ! 
Songs,  by  the  wild  wind  for  a  thousand 

ages 
Hummed    o'er  our  central   prairies, 

vast  and  lone  ; 
Glassed  by  the  Northern  lakes  in  crystal 

pages, 
And  carved  by  hilla  on  pinnacles  of 

stone ; 
Songs  chanted  now,  where  undiscovered 

fountains 
Make  in  the  wilderness  their  babbling 

home, 
And  through  the  deep-hewn  canons  of 

the  mountains 

Plunge  the  cold  rivers  in  perpetual 
foam ! 


Sung  but  by  these :  our  forests  have  no 

voices ; 
Rapt  with  no  loftier  strain  our  rivers 

roll; 
Far  in  the  sky,  no  song-crowned  peak 

rejoices 

In  words  that  give  the  silent  air  a  soul. 
Wake,   mighty   Harp !    and   thrill  the 

shores  that  hearken 
For  the  first  peal  of  thine  immortal 

rhyme : 
Call  from  the  shadows  that  begin  to 

darken 

The    beaming  forms  of    our  heroic, 
time: 


Sing  us  of  deeds,  that  on  thy  strings 

outsoaring 
The    ancient    soul  they  glorified  so 

long, 
Shall  win  the  world  to  hear  thy  grand 

restoring, 

And    own  thy  latest  thy  sublimest 
song! 


SERAPION. 

COME  hither,  Child  !  thou  silent,  shy 
Young  creature  of  the  glorious  eye ! 
Though  never  yet  by  ruder  air 
Than  father's  kiss  or  mother's  prayer 
Were  stirred  the  tendrils  of  thy  hair, 
The  sadness  of  a  soul  that  stands 
Withdrawn     from     Childhood's    frolit 

bands, 

A  stranger  in  the  land,  I  trace 
Upon  thy  brow's  cherubic  grace 
The  tender  pleadings  of  thy  face, 
Where  other  stars  than  Joy  and  Hope 
Have  cast  thy  being's  horoscope. 

For  thee,  the  threshold  of  the  world 
Is  yet  with  morning  dews  im pearled  ; 
The  nameless  radiance  of  Birth 
Imbathes  thy  atmosphere  of  Earth, 
And,  like  a  finer  sunshine,  swims 
Round  every  motion  of  thy  limbs  : 
The  sweet,  sad  wonder  and  surprise 
Of  waking  glimmers  in  thine  eyes, 
And  wiser  instinct,  purer  sense, 
And  gleams  of  rare  intelligence 
Betray  the  converse  held  by  thee 
With  the  angelic  family. 

Come  hither,  Boy  !  For  while  I  press 
Thy  lips'  confiding  tenderness, 
Less  broad  and  dark  the  spaces  be 
Which  Life  has  set  'twixt  thee  and  ma 
Thy  soul's  white  feet  shall  soon  depart 
On  paths  I  walked  with  eager  heart ; 
God  give  thee,  in  His  kindly  grace, 
A  brighter  road,  a  loftier  place ! 
I  see  thy  generous  nature  flow 
In  boundless  trust  to  friend  and  foe, 
And  leap,  despite  of  shocks  and  harms 
To  clasp  the  world  in  loving  arms. 
I  see  that  glorious  circle  shrink 
Back  to  thy  feet,  at  Manhood's  brink, 
Narrowed  to  one,  one  image  fair, 
And  all  its  splendor  gathered  there. 
The  shackles  of  experience  then 
Sit  lightly  as  on  meaner  men  : 
In  flinty  paths  thy  feet  may  bleed, 


TAUEUS. 


121 


Thorns  pierce  thy  flesh,  thou  shalt  not 

heed, 

Till  when,  all  panting  from  the  task, 
Thine  arms  outspread  their  right  shall 

ask, 
Thine  arms  outspread  that  right  shall 

fly, 

The  star  shall  burst,  the  splendor  die  ! 
Go,  with  thy  happier  brothers  play, 
As  heedless  and  as  wild  as  they ; 
Seek  not  so  soon  thy  separate  way, 
Thou  lamb  in  Child'hood's  field  astray  ! 

Whence  earnest  thou  ?  what  angel  bore 
Thee  past  so  many  a  fairer  shore 
Of  guarding  love,  and  guidance  mild, 
To  drop  thee  on  this  barren  wild  ? 
Thy  soul  is  lonely  as  a  star, 
When  all  its  fellows  muffled  are,  — 
A  single  star,  whose  light  appears 
To  glimmer  through  subduing  tears. 
The  father  who  begat  thee  sees 
In  thee  no  deeper  mysteries 
Than  load  his  heavy  ledger's  page, 
And  swell  for  him  thy  heritage. 
A  hard,  cold  man,  of  punctual  face, 
Renowned  in  Credit's  holy-place, 
Whose  very  wrinkles  seem  arrayed 
In  cunning  hieroglyphs  of  trade,  — 
Whose  gravest  thought  but  just  unlocks 
The  problems  of  uncertain  stocks,  — 
Whose  farthest  flights  of  hope  extend 
From  dividend  to  dividend. 
Thy  mother,  —  but  a  mother's  name 
Too  sacred  is,  too  sweet  for  blame. 
No  doubt  she  loves  thee,  —  loves  the 

shy, 

Strange  beauty  of  thy  glorious  eye  ; 
Loves  the  soft  mouth,  whose  drooping 

line 

Is  silent  music ;  loves  to  twine 
Thy  silky  hair  in  ringlets  trim  ; 
To  watch  thy  lightsome  play  of  limb  ; 
But,  God  forgive  me  !  I,  who  find 
The  soul  within  that  beauty  shrined, 
I  love  thee  more,  I  know  thy  worth 
Better,  than  she  who  gave  thee  birth. 

Are  they  thy  keepers  ?     They  would 

thrust 

The  priceless  jewel  in  the  dust ; 
Would  tarnish  in  their  careless  hold 
The  vessel  of  celestial  gold. 
Who  gave  them  thee  1     What  fortune 

lent 

Their  hands  the  delicate  instrument, 
Which  finer  hands  might  teach  to  hymn 
The  harmonies  of  Seraphim, 


Which  they  shall  make  discordant  soon, 
The  sweet  bells  jangled,  out  of  tune  ? 
Mine  eyes  are  dim  :  I  cannot  see 
The  purposes  of  Destiny, 
But  than   my  love  Heaven   could   not 

shine 

More  lovingly,  if  thou  wert  mine ! 
Rest  then  securely  on  my  heart : 
Give  me  thy  trust :  my  child  thou  art, 
And  I  shall  lead  thee  through  the  years 
To    Hopes    and    Passions,  Loves    and 

Fears, 

Till,  following  up  Life's  endless  plan 
A  strong  and  self-dependent  Man, 
I  see  thee  stand  and  strive  with  men  : 
Thy  Father  now,  thy  Brother  then. 


"MOAN,  YE   WILD   WINDS!" 

MOAN,  ye  wild  winds !  around  the  pane, 
And  fall,  thou  drear  December  rain  ! 
Fill  with  your  gusts  the  sullen  day, 
Tear  the  last  clinging  leaves  away  ! 
Reckless  as  yonder  naked  tree, 
No  blast  of  yours  can  trouble  me. 

Give  me  your  chill  and  stern  embrace, 
And  pour  your  baptism  on  my  face 
Sound  in  mine  ears  the  airy  moan 
That  sweeps  in  desolate  monotone, 
Where  on  the  unsheltered  hill-top  beat 
The  marches  of  your  homeless  feet. 

Moan  on,   ye  winds !  and  pour,  thou 

rain ! 

Your  stormy  sobs  and  tears  are  vain, 
If  shed  for  her  whose  fading  eyes 
Will  open  soon  on  Paradise  : 
The  eye  of  Heaven  shall  blinded  be, 
Or  ere  ye  cease,  if  shed  for  me. 


TAURUS. 


THE  Scorpion's  stars  crawl  down  behind 

the  sun, 
And  when  he  drops  below  the  verge 

of  day, 
The  glittering  fangs,  their  fervid  courses 

run, 
Cling  to  his  skirts   and  follow  him 

away. 

Then,  ere  the  heels  of  flying  Capricorn 
Have  touched  the  western  mountain'* 
darkening  rim, 


122 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


I  mark,  stern  Taurus,  through  the  twi 
light  gray 

The  glinting  of  thy  horn, 
And  sullen  front,  uprising  large  and 

dim, 

Bent  to  the   starry  hunter's   sword,  at 
bay. 


Thy  hoofs,  unwilling,  climb  the  sphery 

vault ; 
Thy  red  eye  trembles  with  an  angry 

glare, 
When  the  hounds  follow,  and  in  fierce 

assault 
Bay  through  the  fringes  of  the  lion's 

hair. 
The  stars  that  once  were  mortal  in  their 

love, 
And  by  their  love  are  made  immortal 

now, 

Cluster  like  golden  bees  upon  thy  mane, 
When    thou,    possessed    with 

Jove, 
Bore  sweet  Europa's  garlands  011  thy 

brow, 

And  stole  her  from  the  green  Sicilian 
plain. 


Type  of  the  stubborn  force  that  will  not 

bend 

To  loftier  art,  —  soul  of  defiant  breath 
That  blindly  stands  and  battles  to  the 

end, 
Nerving  resistance  with  the  throes  of 

death,  — 
Majestic   Taurus !   when  thy  wrathful 

eye 
Flamed   brightest,  and   thy  hoofs    a 

moment  stayed 

Their  march  at  Night's  meridian,  I  was 
born  : 

But  in  the  western  sky, 
Like  sweet  Europa,  Love's  fair  star 

delayed, 
To  hang  her  garland  on  thy  silver  horn. 


Thoi  giv"st  that  temper  of  enduring 

mould, 
That  slights  the  wayward   bent  of 

Destiny,  — 
Such  as  sent  forth  the  shaggy  Jarls  of 

old 

To  launch  then  dragons   :n  the  un 
known  sea : 


Such  as  keep  strong  the  sinews  of  the 

sword, 
The  proud,   hot  blood  of  battle,  — 

welcome  made 

The   headsman's    axe,    the    rack,    the 
martyr-fire, 

The  ignominious  ccrd, 
When  but  to  yield,  had  pomps  and 

honors  laid 
On  heads  that  moulder  in  ignoble  mire. 


Night  is  the  summer  when  the   soul 

grows  ripe 

With  Life's  full  harvest :  of  her  myr 
iad  suns, 
Thou  dost  not  gild  the  quiet  herdsman's 

pipe, 
Nor  royal  state,  that  royal  actions 

shuns. 
But    in    the    noontide    of   thy    ruddy 

stars 
Thrive  strength,  and  daring,  and  the 

blood  whence  springs 
The  Heraclidean  seed  of  heroes  ;  then 

Were  sundered  Gaza's  bars  ; 
Then,    'mid    the     smitten     Hydra's 

loosened  rings, 
His  slayer  rested,  in  the  Lernean  fen. 


Thine  is  the  subtle  element  that  turns 
To   fearless  act  the  impulse  of  the 

hour,  — 
The    secret  fire,  whose    flash    electric 

burns 
To   every  source  of  passion  and  of 

power. 
Therefore  I  hail  thee,  on  thy  glittering 

track  : 
Therefore  I  watch  thee,  when   the 

night  grows  dark, 
Slow-rising,  front  Orion's  sword  along 

The  starry  zodiac, 
And  from  thy  mystic  beam  demand  a 

spark 

To   warm   my  soul  with  more   heroic 
sou":. 


AUTUMNAL  VESPERS. 

THE  clarion  Wind,  that  blew  so  loud  at 

morn, 

Whirling    a   thousand   leaves   from 
every  bough 


AUTUMNAL  VESPERS. 


Of  the  purple  woods,  has  not  a  whis 
per  now ; 

flushed   on  the  uplands   is  the  hunts 
man's  horn, 
And  huskers  whistling  round  the  tented 

corn  : 
The  snug  warm  cricket  lets  his  clock 

run  down, 

Scared  by  the  chill,  sad  hour  that  makes 
forlorn 

The  Autumn's  gold  and  brown. 

The  light   is    dying   out  on  field   and 

wold; 
The  life  is  dying  in  the  leaves  and 

grass. 
The  World's  last  breath  no  longer 

dims  the  glass 
Of   waning    sunset,   yellow,    pale,  and 

cold. 
His  genial  pulse,  which  Summer  made 

so  bold, 
Has  ceased.    Haste,  Night,  and  spread 

thy  decent  pall ! 

The  silent,  stiffening  Frost  makes  havoc : 
fold 

The  darkness  over  all ! 

The    light  is  dying  out    o'er    all    the 

land, 
And  in  my  heart  the  light  is  dying. 

She, 

My  life's  best  life,  is  fading  silently 
From   Earth,  from  me,  and  from  the 

dreams  we  planned, 
Since  first  Love  led  us  with  his  beaming 

hand 
From   hope  to    hope,  yet    kept    his 

crown  in  store. 

The  light  is  dying    out   o'er   all    the 
land : 

To  me  it  comes  no  more. 

The  blossom  of  my  heart,  she  shrinks 

away, 
Stricken  with   deadly   blight :    more 

wan  and  weak 
Her  love  replies  in  blanching  lip  and 

cheek, 
And  gentler  in  her  dear  eyes,  day  by 

day. 

God,   in   Thy  mercy,   bid  the  arm  de 
lay, 
Which  through  her  being   smites  to 

dust  my  own ! 

Thou    gav'st    the    seed    thy  sun   and 
showers ;  why  slay 

The  blossoms  yet  unblown  ? 


In  vain,  —  i    vain  !     God  will  not  bid 

the  Spring 
Replace  with  sudden  green  the  Au 

tumn's  gold  ; 
And    as  the    night-mists,   gathering 

damp  and  cold, 
Strike  up  the  vales  where  watercourses 

sing, 
Death's   mists   shall    strike   along  her 

veins,  and  cling 

Thenceforth  forever  round  her  glori 
ous  frame  : 

For  all  her  radiant  presence,  May  shall 
bring 
A  memory  and  a  name. 

What  know  the  woods,  that  soon  shall 

be  so  stark  1 

What  know  the  barren  fields,  the  song- 
less  air, 
Locked  in  benumbing  cold,  of  blooms 

more  fair 

In  mornings  ushered  by  the  April  lark  ? 
Weak  solace  this,  which  grief  will  never 

hark  ; 
Blind  as  a  bud  in  stiff   December's 

mail, 

To  lift  her  look  beyond  the  frozen  dark 
No  memory  can  avail. 

I  never  knew  the  autumnal  eves  could 

wear, 
With  all  their  pomp,  so  drear  a  hue  of 

Death ; 
I  never  knew  their  still  and  solemn 

breath 
Could  rob  the  breaking  heart  of  strength 

to  bear, 

Feeding  the  blank  submission  of  despair. 
Yet,  peace,  sad  soul !   reproach  and 

pit}'  shine 

Suffused  through   starry  tears :    bend 
thou  in  prayer, 
Rebuked  by  Love  divine. 

Our  life  is  scarce  the  twinkle  of  a  star 
In  God's  eternal  day.     Obscure  and 

dim 
With  mortal  clouds,  it  yet  may  beam 

for  Him, 
And  darkened  here,  shine  fair  to  spheres 

afar. 

I  will  be  patient,  lest  my  sorrow  bar 
His  grace  and  blessing,  and  I  fall  su 
pine: 

In  my  own  hands  my  want  and  weak 
ness  are,  — 

My  strength,  0  God  !  in  Thiua 


124 


EARLIER   POEMS. 


ODE  TO  SHELLEY. 


WHY  art  them  dead  ?    Upon  the  hills 

once  more 
The  golden  mist  of  waning  Autumn 

lies; 
The  slow-pulsed  billows  wash  along  the 

shore, 
And  phantom  isles  are  floating  in  the 

skies. 

They  wait  for  thee  :  a  spirit  in  the  sand 
Hushes,  expectant    for    thy   coming 

tread ; 

The  light  wind  pants  to  lift  thy  trem 
bling  hair ; 

Inward,  the  silent  land 
Lies  with  its  mournful  woods ;  —  why 

art  thou  dead, 

When  Earth  demands  that  thou  shalt 
call  her  fair  ? 


II. 

Why  art  thou  dead  ?    I  too  demand  thy 

song, 
To  speak  the  language  yet  denied  to 

mine, 
Twin-doomed  with  thee,  to  feel  the  scorn 

of  Wrong, 

To  worship  Beauty  as  a  thing  divine  ! 
Thou  art  afar:  wilt  thou  not  soon  re 
turn 
To  tell  me  that  which  thou  hast  never 

told? 

To  clasp  my  throbbing  hand,  and,  by 
the  shore 

Or  dewy  mountain-fern, 
Pour  out  thy  heart  as  to  a  friend  of 

old, 

Touched  with  a  twilight  sadness  ?   Nev 
ermore. 


I  could  have  told  thee  all  the  sylvan 

joy 
Of  trackless  woods ;  the  meadows  far 

apart, 
Within  whose  fragrant  grass,  a  Idnely 

boy, 
I  thought  of  God ;  the  trumpet  at  my 

heart, 
When  on  bleak  mountains  roared  the 

midnight  storm, 

And  I  was  bathed  in  lightning,  broad 
and  grand : 


Oh,  more  than  all,  with  soft  and  rever 
ent  breath 

And  forehead  flushing  warm, 
I  would   have  led  thee  through  the 

summer  land 

Of  early  Love,  and  past  my  dreams  of 
Death  1 


In  thee,  Immortal  Brother !  had  I  found 
That  Voice  of  Earth,  that  fails  my 

feebler  lines : 
The  awful  speech  of  Rome's  sepulchral 

ground ; 
The  dusky  hymn   of  Vallombrosa's 

pines ! 
From  thee  the  noise  of  Ocean  would 

have  taken 
A  grand  defiance  round  the  moveless 

shores, 

And  vocal  grown  the  Mountain's  silent 
head : 

Canst  thou  not  yet  awaken 
Beneath  the  funeral  cypress  ?     Earth 

implores 

Thy  presence  for  her  son  ;  —  why  art 
thou  dead  1 


I  do  but  rave :  for  it  is  better  thus. 
Were  once  thy  starry  nature  given  to 

mine, 
In  the  one  life  which  would  encircle 

us 
My  voice  would  melt,  my  soul  be  lost 

in  thine. 

Better  to  bear  the  far  sublimer  pain 
Of  Thought  that  has  not  ripened  into 

speech, 
To  hear  in  silence  Truth  and  Beauty 

sin£.  . 

Divinely  to  the  brain  ; 

For  thus  the  Poet  at  the  last  shall 

reach 

His  own  soul's  voice,  nor  crave  a  broth 
er's  string. 


SICILIAN  WINE. 

I  VE  drunk  Sicilia's  crimson  wine  ! 
The  blazing  vintage  pressed 
From  graoes  on  Etna's  breast, 
What  time  the  mellowing  autumn  gun 

did  shine : 
I  've  drunk  the  wine  ! 


SICILIAN  WINE. 


125 


I  feel  its  blood  divine 
Poured  on  the  sluggish  tide  of  mine, 
Till,  kindling  slow, 
Its  fountains  glow 
With  the  light  that  swims 
On  their  trembling  brims, 
And  a  molten  sunrise  floods  my  limbs ! 
What  do  I  here  1 
I've  drunk  the  wine, 
And  lo !  the  bright  blue  heaven  is  clear 
Above  the  ocean's  bluer  sphere, 
Seen  through  the  long  arcades  of  pine, 
Inwoven  and  arched  with  vine  ! 
The  glades  are  green  below  ; 
The  temple  shines  afar ; 
Above,  old  Etna's  snow 
Sparkles  with  many  an  icy  star  : 
I  see  the  mountain  and  its  marble  wall, 
Where  gleaming  waters  fall 
And  voices  call, 
Singing  and  calling 
Like  chorals  falling 

Through   pearly  doors  of  some  Olym 
pian  hall, 
Where  Love  holds  bacchanal. 

Sicilian  wine !  Sicilian  wine  ! 

Summer,  and  Music,  and  Song  divine 

Are  thine,  —  all  thine  ! 

A  sweet  wind  over  the  roses  plays  ; 

The  wild  bee  hums  at  my  languid  ear ; 

The  mute-winged  moth  serenely  strays 

On  the  downy  atmosphere, 

Like  hovering  Sleep,  that  overweighs 

My  lids  with  his  shadow,  yet  comes  not 
near. 

Who  '11  share  with  me  this  languor  t 

With  me  the  juice  of  Etna  sip  ? 

Who  press  the  goblet's  lip, 

Refusing  mine  the  while  with  love's  en 
chanting  anger  1 

Would  I  were  young  Adonis  now ! 

With  what  an  ardor  bold 

Within  my  arms  I'd  fold 

Fair  Aphrodite  of  Idalian  mould, 

And  let  the  locks  that  hide  her  gleam 
ing  brow 

Fall  o'er  my  shoulder  as  she  lay 

With  the  fair  swell  of  her  immortal 
breast 

Upon  my  bosom  pressed, 

living  Olympian  thrills  to  its  enamored 
clay! 

Bacchus  and  Pan  have  fled  : 
No  heavy  Satyr  crushes  with  his  tread 
The  verdure  of  the  meadow  ground, 
But  in  their  stead 


The  Nymphs  are  leading  a  bewildering 

round, 
Vivid  and  light,  as  o'er  some  flowering 

rise 

A  dance  of  butterflies, 
Their  tossing   hair  with  slender  lilies 

crowned, 

And  greener  ivy  than  o'erran 
The  brows  of  Bacchus  and  the  reed  ol 

Pan! 

I  faint,  I  die  : 

The  flames  expire, 

That  made  my  blood  a  lurid  fire  : 

Steeped  in  delicious  weariness  I  lie. 

Oh  lay  me  in  some  pearled  shell, 

Soft-balanced  on  the  rippling  sea, 

Where  sweet,  cheek-kissing  airs  may 

wave 

Their  fresh  wings  over  me ; 
Let  me  be  wafted  with  the  swell 
Of  Nereid  voices  :  let  no  billow  rave 
To  break  the  cool  green  crystal  of  the 

sea. 

For  I  will  wander  free 
Past  the  blue  islands  and  the  fading 

shores, 

To  Calpe  and  the  far  Azores, 
And  still  beyond,  and  wide  away, 
Beneath  the   dazzling  wings  of  tropic 

day, 

Where,  on  unruffled  seas, 
Sleep  the  green  isles  of  the  Hesperides. 

The  Triton's  trumpet  calls  : 

I  hear,  I  wake,  I  rise : 

The  sound  peals  up  the  skies, 

And  mellowed  Echo  falls 

In  answer  back  from  Heaven's  cerulean 

walls. 
Give  me  the  lyre  that  Orpheus  played 

upon, 

Or  bright  Hyperion, — 
Nay,  rather  come,  thon  of  the  mighty 

bow, 

Come  thou  below, 

Leaving  thy  steeds  unharnessed  go  ! 
Sing  as  thon  wilt,  my  voice  shall  dare 

to  follow, 
And  I  will  sun   me    in    thine    awful 

glow, 

Divine  Apollo ! 

Then  thou  thy  lute  shalt  twine 
With  Bacchic  tendrils  of  the  glorious 

vine 

That  gave  Sicilian  wine  : 
And  henceforth  when  the  breezes  run 
Over  its  clusters,  ripening  in  the  sun, 


126 


EARLIER   POEMS. 


The  leaves  shall  still  be  playing, 
Uuto  thy  lute  its  melody  repaying, 
And  I,  that  quaff,  shall  evermore  be  free 
To  mount  thy  car  and  ride  the  heavens 
with  thee ! 


STORM-LINES. 

.  WHEN  the  rains  of  November  are  dark 
on  the  hills,  and  the  pine-trees 
incessantly  roar 

To  the  sound  of  the  wind-beaten  crags, 
and  the  floods  that  in  foam 
through  their  black  channels 
pour : 

When  the  breaker-lined  coast  stretches 
dimly  afar  through  the  desolate 
waste  of  the  gale, 

And  the  clang  of  the  sea-gull  at  night 
fall  is  heard  from  the  deep,  like  a 
mariner's  wail : 

When  the  gray  sky  drops  low,  and  the 
forest  is  bare,  and  the  laborer  is 
housed  from  the  storm, 

And  the  world  is  a  blank,  save  the  light 
of  his  home  through  the  gust 
shining  redly  and  warm :  — 

Go  thou  forth,  if  the  brim  of  thy  heart 

with  its   tropical  fulness  of  life 

overflow,  — 
If  the  sun  of  thy  bliss  in  the  zenith  is 

hung,  nor  a  shadow  reminds  thee 

of  woe ! 

Leave  the  home  of  thy  love  ;  leave  thy 

labors  of  fame ;  in  the  rain  and 

the  darkness  go  forth, 
When  the  cold  winds  unpausingly  wail 

as  they  drive  from  the  cheerless 

expanse  of  the  North. 

Thou  shalt  turn  from  the  cup  that  was 

mantling  before;  thou  shalt  hear 

the  eternal  despair 
Of  the  hearts  that  endured  and  were 

broken  at  last,  from  the  hills  and 

the  sea  and  the  air  ! 

Thou  shalt  hear  how  the  Earth,  the  ma 
ternal,  laments  for  the  children 
she  nurtured  with  tears, — 

How  the  forest  but  deepens  its  wail  and 
the  breakers  their  roar,  with  the 
inarch  of  the  years  ! 


Then  the  gleam  of  thy  hearth-fire  shall 

dwindle  away,  and  the  lips  of  thy 

loved  ones  be  still ; 
And  thy  soul  shall  lament  in  the  moan 

of  the  storm,  sounding  wide  on 

the  shelterless  hill. 

All  the  woes  of  existence  shall  stand  at 
thy  heart,  and  the  sad  eyes  of 
myriads  implore, 

In  the  darkness  and  storm  of  their 
being,  the  ray,  streaming  out 
through  thy  radiant  door. 

Look  again  :  how  that  star  of  thy  Para 
dise  dims,  through  the  warm 
tears,  unwittingly  shed ;  — 

Thou  art  man,  and  a  sorrow  so  bitterly 
wrung  never  fell  on  the  dust  of 
the  Dead  ! 

Let  the  rain  of  the  midnight  beat  cold 
on  thy  cheek,  and  the  proud 
pulses  chill  in  thy  frame, 

Till  the  love  of  thy  bosom  is  grateful 
and  sad,  and  thou  turu'st  from 
the  mockery  of  Fame  ! 

Take  with  humble  acceptance  the  gifts 
of  thy  life  ;  let  thy  joy  touch  the 
fountain  of  tears  ; 

For  the  soul  of  the  Earth,  in  endurance 
and  pain,  gathers  promise  of  hap 


pier  years 


THE  TWO  VISIONS. 

THROUGH  days  of  toil,  through  nightly 

fears, 

A  vision  blessed  my  heart  for  years ; 
And  so  secure  its  features  grew, 
My  heart  believed  the  blessing  true. 

I  saw  her  there,  a  household  dove, 
In  consummated  peace  of  love, 
And  sweeter  joy  and  saintlier  grace 
Breathed  o'er  the  beauty  of  her  face  : 

The  joy  and  grace  of  love  at  rest, 
The  fireside  music  of  the  breast. 
When  vain  desires  and  restless  scheme* 
Sleep,  pillowed  on  our  early  dreams. 

Nor  her  alone  :  beside  her  stood, 
In  gentler  types,  our  love  renewed ; 
Our  septirate  beings  one,  in  Birth,  — 
The  darling  miracles  of  Earth. 


THE   WAVES. 


127 


The  mother's  smile,  the  children's  kiss, 
And  home's  serene,  abounding  bliss ; 
The  fruitage  of  a  life  that  bore 
But  idle  summer  blooms  before ; 

Such  was  the  vision,  far  and  sweet, 
That,  still  beyond  Time's  lagging  feet, 
Lay  glimmering  in  my  heart  for  years, 
Dim  with  the  mist  of  happy  tears. 

That  vision  died,  in  drops  of  woe, 
In  blotting  drops,  dissolving  slow  : 
Now,  toiling  day  and  sorrowing  night, 
Another  vision  fills  my  sight. 

A  cold  mound  in  the  winter  snow ; 
A  colder  heart  at  rest  below ; 
A  life  in  utter  loneness  hurled, 
And  darkness  over  all  the  world. 


STORM  SONG. 

THE   clouds  are    scudding    across   the 

moon, 

A  misty  light  is  on  the  sea  ; 
The  wind  in  the  shrouds  has  a  wintry 

tune, 
And  the  foam  is  flying  free. 

Brothers,  a  night  of  terror  and  gloom 
Speaks  in   the  cloud  and  gathering 

roar, 

Thank  God,  He  has  given  us  broad  sea- 
room, 
A  thousand  miles  from  shore. 

Down  with   the  hatches  on  those  who 

sleep! 
The  wild   and  whistling   deck    have 

we; 
Good  watch,  my  brothers,  to-night  we  '11 

keep, 
While  the  tempest  is  on  the  sea ! 

Though  the  rigging  shriek  in  his  terrible 

gr'Pr 
And    the    naked    spars    be    snapped 

away, 
Lashed  to  the  helm,   we  '11  drive  our 

ship 
In  the  teeth  of  the  whelming  spray  ! 

Hark  !  how  the  surges  o'erleap  the  deck  ! 

Hark  !  how  the  pitiless  tempest  raves  ! 
^h,  daylight  will  look  upon  many  a 
wreck 

Drifting  over  the  desert  waves. 


Yet,  courage,   brothers !  we  trust   the 

wave, 
With    God    above    us,  our  guiding 

chart : 

So,  whether  to  harbor  or  ocean-grave, 
Be  it  still  with  a  cheery  heart ! 


SONG. 

I  PLUCKED  for  thee  the  wilding  rose 

And  wore  it  on  my  breast, 
And  there,  till  daylight's  dusky  close, 

Its  silken  cheek  was  pressed ; 
Its  desert  breath  was  sweeter  far 

Than  palace-rose  could  be, 
Sweeter  than  all  Earth's  blossoms  are, 

But  that  thou  gav'st  to  me. 

I  kissed  its  leaves,  in  fond  despite 

Of  lips  that  failed  my  own, 
And  Love  recalled  that  sacred  night 

His  blushing  flower  was  blown. 
I  vowed,  no  rose  should  rival  mine, 

Though  withered  now,  and  pale, 
Till    those   are    plucked,   whose   white 
buds  twine 

Above  thy  bridal  veil. 


THE   WAVES. 

I. 

CHILDREN  are  we 

Of  the  restless  sea, 
Swelling  in  anger  or  sparkling  in  glee, 

We  follow  our  race, 

In  shifting  chase, 
Over  the  boundless  ocean-space ! 
Who  hath  beheld  where  the  race  begun  ? 

Who  shall  behold  it  run  ? 

Who  shall  behold  it  run  ? 


When  the  smooth  airs  keep 
Their  noontide  sleep, 
We  dimple  the  cheek  of  the  dreaming 

deep ; 

When  the  rough  winds  come, 
From  their  cloudy  home, 
At  the  tap  of  the  hurricane's  thunder- 
drum, 
Deep    are    the    furrows    of  wrath  we 

plough, 

Ridging  his  darkened  brow  ! 
Ridging  his  darkened  brow  1 


128 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


III. 

Over  us  born, 

The  unclouded  Morn 
Trumpets    her  joy  with   the  Triton's 
horn, 

And  sun  and  star 

By  the  thousand  are 
Orbed  in  our  glittering,  near  and  far : 
And  the  splendor  of  Heaven,  the  pomp 
of  Day, 

Shine  in  our  laughing  spray  ! 

Shine  in  our  laughing  spray  ! 


We  murmur  our  spell 

Over  sand  and  shell ; 
We  girdle  the  reef  with  a  combing  swell ; 

And  bound  in  the  vice 

Of  the  Arctic  ice, 

We  build  us  a    palace  of   grand   de 
vice,  — 
Walls  of  crystal  and  splintered  spires, 

Flashing  with  diamond  fires  ! 

Flashing  with  diamond  fires ! 


In  the  endless  round 

Of  our  motion  and  sound, 
The  fairest  dwelling  of  Beauty  is  found, 

And  with  voice  of  strange 

And  solemn  change, 
The  elements  speak  in  our  world-wide 

range, 
Harping  the  terror,  the  might,  the  mirth, 

Sorrows  and  hopes  of  Earth ! 

Sorrows  and  hopes  of  Earth ! 


SONG. 

FROM  the  bosom  of  ocean  I  seek  thee, 

Thou  lamp  of  my  spirit  afar, 
As  the  seaman,  adrift  in  the  darkness, 

Looks  up  for  the  beam  of  his  star ; 
And  when  on  the  moon-lighted  water 

The  spirits  of  solitude  sleep, 
My  soul,  in  the  light  of  thy  beauty, 

Lies  hushed  as  the  waves  of  the  deep. 

As  the  shafts  of  the  sunrise  are  broken 

Far  over  the  glittering  sea, 
Thou  hast  dawned  on  the  waves  of  my 

dreaming, 

And  each  thought  has  a  sparkle  of 
thee. 


And  though,  with  the  white  sail  dis 
tended, 

I  speed  from  the  vanishing  shore, 
Thou  wilt  give  to  the  silence  of  ocean 

The  spell  of  thy  beauty  the  more. 


SONNET. 

TO   G.    H.  B. 

You  comfort  me  as  one  that,  knowing 

Fate, 
Would  paint  her  visage  kinder  than  you 

deem; 

You  say,  my  only  bliss  that  is  no  dream 
She  clouds,  but  makes  not  wholly  deso 
late. 
Ah,  Friend  !  your  heart  speaks  words  of 

little  weight 
To  veil  that  sadder  knowledge,  learned 

in  song, 
And  'gainst  your  solace  Grief  has  made 

me  strong : 

The  Gods  are  jealous  of  our  low  estate  ; 
They  give  not  Fame  to  Love,  nor  Love 

to  Fame ; 
Power  cannot  taste  the  joy  the  humbler 

share, 
Nor  holy  Beauty  breathe  in  Luxury's 

air, 
And  all  in  darkness  Genius  feeds  his 

flame. 
We  build  and  build,  poor  fools  !  and  all 

the  while 
Some  Demon  works   unseen,  and  saps 

the  pile. 


THE  WAYSIDE   DREAM. 

THE  deep  and  lordly  Danube 

Goes  winding  far  below  ; 
I  see  the  white-walled  hamlets 

Amid  his  vineyards  glow, 
And  southward,  through  the  ether,  shine 

The  Styrian  hills  of  snow. 

O'er  many  a  league  of  landscape 
Sleeps  the  warm  haze  of  noon  ; 

The  wooing  winds  come  freighted 
Witn  messages  of  June, 

And  down  among  the  corn  and  flowers 
I  hear  the  water's  tune. 

The  meadow-lark  is  singing, 
As  if  it  still  were  morn ; 


STEYERMARK. 


129 


Within  the  dark  pine-forest 

The  hunter  winds  his  horn, 
And    the    cuckoo's    shy,    complaining 
note 

Mocks  the  maidens  in  the  corn. 

I  watch  the  cloud-armada 

Go  sailing  up  the  sky, 
Lulled    by  the    murmuring    mountain 
grass 

Upon  whose  bed  I  lie, 
And  the  faint  sound  of  noonday  chimes 

That  in  the  distance  die. 

A  warm  and  drowsy  sweetness 

Is  stealing  o'er  my  brain ; 
I  see  no  more  the  Danube 

Sweep  through  his  royal  plain  ; 
I  hear  no  more  the  peasant  girls 

Singing  amid  the  grain. 

Soft,  silvery  wings,  a  moment 
Have  swept  across  my  brow : 

Again  I  hear  the  water, 

But  its  voice  is  sweeter  now, 

And  the  mocking-bird  and  oriole 
Are  singing  on  the  bough ; 

The  elm  and  linden  branches 
Droop  close  and  dark  o'erhead, 

And  the  foaming  forest  brooklet 
Leaps  down  its  rocky  bed  : 

Be  still,  my  heart !  the  seas  are  passed, — 
The  paths  of  home  I  tread  ! 

The  showers  of  creamy  blossoms 

Are  on  the  linden  spray, 
And  down  the  clover  meadow 

They  heap  the  scented  hay, 
And  glad  winds  toss  the  forest  leaves, 

All  the  bright  summer  day. 

Old  playmates  !  bid  me  welcome 

Amid  your  brother-band  ; 
Give  me  the  old  affection,  — 

The  glowing  grasp  of  hand  ! 
I  seek  no  more  the  realms  of  old,  — • 

Here  is  my  Fatherland  ! 

Come  hither,  gentle  maiden, 
Who  weep'st  in  tender  joy  ! 

The  rapture  of  thy  presence 
Repays  the  world's  annoy, 

And  calms  the  wild  and  ardent  heart 
Which  warms  the  wandering  boy. 

In  many  a  mountain  fastness, 
By  many  a  river's  foam, 


And  through  the  gorgeous  cities, 

'T  was  loneliness  to  roam  ; 
For  the  sweetest  music  in  my  heart 

Was  the  olden  songs  of  home. 

Ah,  glen  and  grove  are  vanished, 
And  friends  have  faded  now  1 

The  balmy  Styrian  breezes 
Are  blowing  on  my  brow, 

And  sounds  again  the  cuckoo's  call 
From  the  forest's  inmost  bough. 

Fled  is  that  happy  vision,  — 

The  gates  of  slumber  fold ; 
I  rise  and  journey  onward 

Through  valleys  green  and  old, 
Where    the  far,  white  Alps  announce 
the  morn, 

And  keep  the  sunset's  gold. 
UPPEB  AUSTRIA,  1845. 


STEYERMARK 

IN  Steyermark.  —  green  Steyermark, 

The  fields!  are  bright  and  the  forest* 
darfc. — 

Bright  with  the  maids  that  tiind  the 
sheaves 

Dark  with  the  ircne^  ol  whispering 
leavet  f 

Voices  and  streams  and  sweet  bells 
chime 

Over  the  land,  in  the  harvest-time, 

And  the  blithest  songs  of  the  finch  and 
lark 

Are  heard  in  the  orchards  of  Steyer 
mark. 

In  Steyermark, — old  Steyermark, 
The  mountain  summits  are  white  a^d 

stark ; 
The  rough  winds  furrow  their  trackless 

snow, 
But  the  mirrors  of  crystal  are  smooth 

below ; 

The  stormy  Danube  clasps  the  wave 
That  downward  sweeps  with  the  Drave 

and  Save, 
And  the  Euxiue  is  whitened  with  many 

a  bark, 
Freighted  with  ores  of  Steyermark! 

In  Steyermark,  —  rough  Steyermark, 
The  anvils  ring  from  dawn  till  dark  ; 
The  molten    streams    of    the    furnac* 
glare, 


130 


EARLIER   POEMS. 


Blurring    with    crimson    the   midnight 

air; 

The  lusty  voices  of  forgemen  chord, 
Chanting     the    ballad    of     Siegfried's 

Sword, 
While    the   hammers  swung   by   their 

arms  so  stark 
Strike  to  the  music  of  Steyermark ! 

In  Steyermark,  —  dear  Steyermark, 
Each    heart    is  light   as   the   morning 

lark  ; 
There  men   are  framed  in   the  manly 

mould 
Of  their  stalwart  sires,  of  the  times  of 

old, 

And  the  sunny  blue  of  the  Styrian  sky 
Grows  soft  in  the  timid  maiden's  eye, 
When  love  descends  with  the  twilight 

dark, 
In  the  beechen  groves  of  Steyermark. 


TO  A  BAVARIAN  GIRL. 

THOU,  Bavaria's  brown-eyed  daughter, 

Art  a  shape  of  joy, 
Standing  by  the  Isar's  water 

With  thy  brother-boy  ; 
In  thy  dream,  with  idle  fingers 

Threading  through  his  curls, 
On  thy  cheek  the  sun's  kiss  lingers, 

Rosiest  of  girls ! 

Woods  of  glossy  oak  are  ringing 

With  the  echoes  bland, 
While  thy  generous  voice  is  singing 

Songs  of  Fatherland,  — 
Songs,  that  by  the  Danube's  river 

Sound  on  hills  of  vine, 
And  where  waves  in  green  light  quiver, 

Down  the  rushing  Rhine. 

Life,  with  all  its  hues  and  changes, 

To  thy  heart  doth  lie 
Like  those  dreamy  Alpine  ranges 

In  the  southern  sky  ; 
Where  in  haze  the  clefts  are  hidden, 

Which  the  foot  should  fear, 
And  the  crags  that  fall  unbidden 

Startle  not  the  ear. 

Where  the  village  maidens  gather 

At  the  fountain's  brim, 
Or  in  sunny  harvest  weather, 

With  the  reapers  trim ; 
Where  the  autumn  fires  are  burning 

On  the  vintage-hills ; 


Where  the  mossy  wheels  are  turning 
In  the  ancient  mills ; 

Where  from  ruined  robber-towers 

Hangs  the  ivy's  hair. 
And  the  crimson  t'oxbell  flowers 

On  the  crumbling  stair:  — 
Everywhere,  without  thy  presence, 

Would  the  sunshine  fail, 
Fairest  of  the  maiden  peasants  ! 

Flower  of  Isar's  vale  ! 
MUNICH,  1845. 


IN  ITALY. 

DEAR  Lillian,  all  I  wished  is  won  ! 
I  sit  beneath  Italia's  sun, 
Where  olive-orchards  gleam  and  quiver 
Along  the  banks  of  Aruo's  river. 

Throug-h  laurel  leaves,  the  dim  green 
light 

Falls  on  my  forehead  as  I  write, 

And  the  sweet  chimes  of  vesper,  ring 
ing, 

Blend  with  the  contadina's  singing. 

Rich  is  the  soil  with  Fancy's  gold  ; 
The  stirring  memories  of  old 
Rise  thronging  in  my  haunted  vision, 
And  wake  my  spirit's  young  ambition. 

But  as  the  radiant  sunsets  close 
Above  Val  d'Arno's  bowers  of  rose, 
My  soul  forgets  the  olden  glory, 
And  deems  our  love  a  dearer  story. 

Thy  words,  in  Memory's  ear,  outchime 
The  music  of  the  Tuscan  rhyme  ; 
Thou      standest      here  —  the     gentle- 
hearted  — 
Amid  the  shades  of  bards  departed. 

I  see  before  thee  fade  away 

Their  garlands  of  immortal  bay, 

And    turn    from    Petrarch's    passion 

glances 
To  my  own  dearer  heart-romances. 

Sad  is  the  opal  glow  that  fires 
The  midnight  of  the  cypress  spires, 
And  cold  the  scented  wind  that  closes 
The  heart  of  bright  Etruscan  roses. 

A  single  thought  of  thee  effaced 
The  fair  Italian  dream  I  chased ; 


A  FUNERAL  THOUGHT. 


131 


For  the  true  clime  of  song  and  sun 
Lies  in  the  heart  which  mine  hath  won  ! 
FLORENCE,  1845. 

A  BACCHIC  ODE. 

WINE,  —  bring  wine  ! 

Leb  the  crystal  heaker  flame  and  shine, 

Brimming  o'er  with  the  draught  divine ! 

The  crimson  glow 

Of  the  lifted  cup  on  my  forehead  throw, 

Like  the  sunset's  flush  on  a  field  of  snow. 

I  love  to  lave 

My  thirsty  lip  in  the  ruddy  wave ; 

Freedom  bringeth  the  wine  so  brave  ! 

The  world  is  cold  : 

Sorrow  and  pain  have  gloomy  hold, 

Chilling  the  bosom  warm  and  bold. 

Doubts  and  fears 

Veil  the  shine  of  my  morning  years,  — 

My  life's  lone  rainbow  springs  from  tears. 

But  Eden-gleams 

Visit  my  soul  in  immortal  dreams, 
When  the  wave  of  the  goblet  burns  and 
beams. 

Not  from  the  Rhine, 

Not  from  fields  of  Bttrgundian  vine, 

Bring  me  the  bright  Olympian  wine  ! 

Not  with  a  ray 

Born  where  the  winds  of  Shiraz  play, 

Or  the  fiery  blood  of  the  bright  Tokay. 

Not  where  the  glee 

Of  Falernian  vintage  echoes  free, 

Or  the  Chiau  gardens  gem  the  sea. 

But  wine,  —  bring  wine, 
Royally  flushed  with  its  growth  divine, 
In    the    crystal  depth  of    my  soul    to 
shine ! 

Whose  glow  was  caught 

From  the  warmth  which  Fancy's  sum 
mer  brought 

To  the  vintage-fields  in  the  Land  of 
Thought. 

Rich  and  free 

To  my  thirsting  soul  will  the  goblet  be, 

Poured  by  the  Hebe,  Poesy. 


A  FUNERAL  THOUGHT. 


WHEN  the  stern  Genius,  to  whose  hol 
low  tramp 

Echo  the  startled  chambers  of  the  soul, 
Waves  his  inverted  torch  o'er  that  pale 

camp 
Where  the  archangel's  final  trumpets 

roll, 
I  would  not  meet  him  in  the  chamber 

dim, 

Hushed,  and  pervaded  with  a  name 
less  fear, 
When  the  breath  flutters  and  the  senses 

swim, 
And  the  dread  hour  is  near. 


Though  Love's  dear  arms  might  clasp 

me  foudly  then 

As  if  to  keep  the  Summoner  at  bay, 
And  woman's  woe  and  the  calm  grief 

of  men 
Hallow  at  last  the  chill,  unbreathing 

clay  — 
These  are  Earth's  fetters,  and  the  soul 

would  shrink, 
Thus  bound,  from  Darkness  and  the 

dread  Unknown, 
Stretching  its  arms  from  Death's  eternal 

brink, 
Which  it  must  dare  alone. 


But  in  the  awful  silence  of  the  sky, 
Upon    some    mountain   summit,   yet 

untrod, 
Through  the  blue  ether  would  I  climb, 

to  die 
Afar  from   mortals  and   alone  with 

God! 

To  the  pure  keeping  of  the  stainless  air 
Would  I  resign  my  faint  and  flutter 
ing  breath, 
And  with  the  rapture  of  an  answered 

prayer 
Receive  the  kiss  of  Death. 


Then  to  the  elements  my  frame  woul^ 

turn ; 

No  worms  should  riot  on  my  coffined 
clay, 


132 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


But  the  cold  limbs,  from  that  sepulchral 

urn, 
In    the    slow  storms    of  ages  waste 

away. 

Loud  winds  and  thunder's  diapason  high 
Should  be  my  requiem  through  the 

coming  time, 
And  the  white  summit,  fading  in  the 

sky, 
My  monument  sublime. 


THE  NORSEMAN'S  RIDE. 

THE  frosty  fires  of  Northern  starlight 

Gleamed  on  the  glittering  snow, 
And  through  the  forest's  frozen  branches 

The  shrieking  winds  did  blow  ; 
A  floor  of  blue,  translucent  marble 

Kept  ocean's  pulses  still, 
When,  in  the  depth  of  dreary  midnight, 

Opened  the  burial  hill. 

Then  while  a  low  and  creeping  snnd- 

der 

Thrilled  upward  through  the  ground, 
The  Norseman  came,  as  armed  for  bat 
tle, 

In  silence  from  his  mound  : 
He,  who  was  mourned  in  solemn  sor 
row 

By  many  a  swordsman  bold, 
And  harps  that  wailed  along  the  ocean, 
Struck  by  the  Skalds  of  old. 

Sudden,  a  swift  and  silver  shadow 

Rushed  up  from  out  the  gloom,  — 
A  horse  that  stamped  with  hoof  impa 
tient, 

Yet  noiseless,  on  the  tomb. 
"  Ha,  Surtur  1   let  me  hear  thy  tramp 
ing, 

Thou  noblest  Northern  steed, 
Whose  neigh  along  the  stormy  head 
lands 
Bade  the  bold  Viking  heed !  " 

He  mounted :  like  a  north-light  streak 
ing 

The  sky  with  flaming  bars, 
They,  on  the  winds  so  wildly  shrieking, 

Shot  up  before  the  stars. 
"  Is  this  thy  mane,  my  fearless  Surtur, 

That  streams  against  my  breast  ? 
Is  this  thy  neck,  that  curve  of  moon 
light, 

Which  Helva's  hand  caressed  ? 


"  No  misty  breathing  strains  thy  nos 
tril, 

Thine  eye  shines  blue  and  cold, 
Yet,  mounting  up  our  airy  pathway, 

I  see  thy  hoofs  of  gold  ! 
Not    lighter    o'er   the  springing    rain 
bow 

Walhalla's  gods  repair, 
Than  we,  in  sweeping  journey  over 

The  bending  bridge  of  air. 

"  Far,  far  around,  star-gleams  are  spark 

ling 

Amid  the  twilight  space . 
And  Earth,  that  lay  so  cold  and  aark 

ling, 

Has  veiled  her  dusky  face. 
Are  those  the  Nornes  that  beckon  on 
ward 

To  seats  at  Odin's  board, 
Where  nightly  by  the  hands  ot  heroes 
The  foaming  mead  is  poured  ? 

"  'T  is  Skuld !  her  star-eye  speaks  the 
glory 

That  waits  the  warrior's  soul, 
When  on  its  hinge  of  music  opens 

The  gateway  of  the  Pole, — 
When  Odin's  warder  leads  the  hero 

To  banquets  never  done, 
And  Freya's  eyes  outshine  in  summer 

The  ever-risen  sun. 

"On  !    on  !    the    Northern    lights    aro 
streaming 

In  brightness  like  the  morn, 
And  pealing  far  amid  the  vastness, 

I  hear  the  Gjallarhorn : 
The   heart  of    starry  space    is    throb 
bing 

With  songs  of  minstrels  old, 
And  now,  on  high  Walhalla's  portal, 

Gleam  Surtur's  hoofs  of  gold  !  " 


THE  CONTINENTS. 

I  HAD  a  vision  in  that  solemn  hour, 

Last  of  the  year  sublime, 
Whose  wave  sweeps  downward,  with  its 
dying  power 

Rippling  the  shores  of  Time. 
On  the  bleak  margin  of  that  hoary  sea 

My  spirit  stood  alone, 
Watching  the  gleams  of  phantom  His 
tory, 

Which,  through  the  darkness  shone 


THE   CONTINENTS. 


133 


Then,  when  the  bell  of  mid  night  ghostly 

hands 

Tolled  for  the  dead  year's  doom, 
I  saw  the  spirits  of  Earth's  ancient  lands 

Stand  up  amid  the  gloom  ! 
The    crowned  deities,  whose  reign  be 
gan 

In  the  forgotten  Past, 
When  first  the  fresh  world  gave  to  sov 
ereign  Man 
Her  empires  green  and  vast. 

First  queenly  ASIA,  from    the  fallen 
thrones 

Of  twice  three  thousand  years, 
Came  with  the  woe  a  grieving  goddess 
owns, 

Who  longs  for  mortal  tears. 
The  dust  of  ruin  to  her  mantle  clung 

And  dimmed  her  crown  of  gold, 
While  the  majestic  sorrows  of  her  tongue 

Prom  Tyre  to  Indus  rolled : 

"Mourn  with  me,  sisters,  in  my  realm 
of  woe, 

Whose  only  glory  streams 
From  its  lost  childhood,  like  the  arctic 
glow 

Which  sunless  Winter  dreams  ! 
In  the  red  desert  moulders  Babylon, 

And  the  wild  serpent's  hiss 
Echoes  in  Petra's  palaces  of  stone, 

And  waste  Persepolis. 

"  Gone  are  the  deities  that  ruled  en 
shrined 

In  Elephanta's  caves, 
And  Brahma's  wailings  fill  the  fragrant 

wind 

That  ripples  Ganges'  waves  : 
The  ancient  gods   amid  their  temples 

fall, 

And  shapes  of  some  near  doom, 
Trembling  and  waving  on  the  Future's 

wall, 
More  fearful  make  my  gloom ! " 

Then,  from  her  seat,  amid  the  palms  em 
bowered 

That  shade  the  lion-land, 
Swart  AFRICA  in  dusky  aspect  towered, 

The  fetters  on  her  hand  ! 
Backward  she  saw,  from  out  her  drear 

eclipse, 

The  mighty  Theban  years, 
And  the  deep  anguish  of  her  mournful 

lips 
Interpreted  her  tears 


"  Woe  for    my  children,   whom   your 

gyves  have  bound 
Through  centuries  of  toil ; 
The  bitter  wailings  of  whose  bondage 

sound 

From  many  an  alien  soil ! 
Leave  me  but  free,  though  the  eternal 

•sand 

Be  all  my  kingdom  now,  — 
Though  the  rude  splendors  of  barbaric 

land 
But  mock  my  crownless  brow !  " 

There  was  a  sound,  like  sudden  trumpets 

blown, 

A  ringing,  as  of  arms, 
When  EUROPE  rose,  a  stately  amazon, 

Stern  in  her  mailed  charms. 
She  brooded  long  beneath  the  weary 

bars 

That  chafed  her  soul  of  flame, 
And  like  a  seer,  who  reads   the  awful 

stars, 
Her  words  prophetic  came  : 

"  I  hear  new  sounds  along  the  ancient 

shore, 

Whose  dull  old  monotone 
Of  tides,  that  broke  on  many  a  system 

hoar, 

Moaned  through  the  ages  lone  : 
I  see  a  gleaming,  like  the  crimson  morn 

Beneath  a  stormy  sky, 
And  warning  throes,  which  long   my 

breast  has  borne, 
Proclaim  the  struggle  nigh." 

O   radiant-browed,  the  latest  born  of 

Time! 

How  waned  thy  sisters  old, 
Before  the  splendors  of  thine  eye  sub 
lime, 

And  mien  erect  and  bold  ! 
Free,  as  the  winds  of  thine  own  forests 

are, 

Thy  brow  beamed  lofty  cheer, 
And  Day's  bright  oriflamme,  the  Morn 
ing  Star, 
Flashed  on  thy  lifted  spear. 

"  I  bear  no  weight "  —  rang  thine  exult 
ing  tones  — 

"  Of  memories  weird  and  vast ; 
No  crushing  heritage  of  iron  thrones, 

Bequeathed  by  some  dead  Past ; 
But  hopes,  that  eive  mv  children  oowa? 

cne  old-world  fears  — 


134 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


WTiose   prophecies    foreran  the    latest 

time, 
And  lead  the  crowning  years! 

"  Like  spectral  lamps,  that  burn  before 

a  tomb, 

The  ancient  lights  expire  ; 
i  hold   a  torch,  that  floods  the  fading 

gloom 

With  everlasting  fire  : 
Crowned  with  my  constellated  stars,  I 

stand 

Beside  the  foaming  sea, 
And  from  the  Future,  with  a  victor's 

hand, 

Claim  empire  for  the  Free  !  " 
January,  1848. 


L'ENVOL 

I  'VE  passed  the  grim  and  threatening 
warders 

That  guard  the  vestibule  of  Song, 
And  traced   the   print   of  bolder  foot 
steps 

The  lengthened  corridors  along  ; 
Where  every  thought  I  strove  to  blazon 

Beside  the  bannered  lays  of  old, 
Was  dim  below  some  bright  escutcheon, 

Or  shaded  by  some  grander  fold. 


1  saw,  in  veiled  and  shadowy  glimpses, 

The  solemn  halls  expand  afar, 
And  through  the  twilight,  half  despair 

ing. 

Looked  trembling  up  to  find  a  star ; 
Till,  in  the  rush  of  wings,  awakened 

My  soul  to  utterance  free  and  strong, 
And  with  impassioned  exultation, 

I  revelled  in  the  rage  of  Song  ! 

Then,  though  the  world  beside,  unheed 
ing, 

Heard  other  voices  than  my  own, 
Thou,   thou    didst    mark    the    broken 
music, 

And  cheer  its  proud,  aspiring  tone  : 
Thou  cam'st  in  many  a  lovely  vision 

To  lead  my  ardent  spirit  on, 
Thine  eye  my  morning-star  of  promise, 

The  sweet  anticipant  of  dawn. 

And  if  I  look  to  holier  altars, 

Thou  still  art  near  me,  as  of  old, 
And  thou  wilt  give  the  living  laurel, 

When  the  shrined  Presence  I  behold. 
Take,  then,  these  echoes  of  thy  being, 

My    lips     have    weakly    striven    to 

frame ; 

For  when   I  speak  what  thou  inspir- 
est, 

I  know  my  songs  are  nearest  fame. 


SINCE  1861. 


SDTOE  1861. 


THROUGH  BALTIMOEE. 


T  WAS  Friday  morn :  the  train  drew 
near 

The  city  and  the  shore. 
Far  through  the  sunshine,  soft  and  clear, 
We  saw  the  dear  old  flag  appear, 
And  in  our  hearts  arose  a  cheer 

For  Baltimore. 


Across  the  broad  Patapsco's  wave, 

Old  Fort  McIIenry  bore 
The  starry  banner  of  the  brave, 
As  when  our  fathers  went  to  save, 
Or  in  the  trenches  find  a  grave 
At  Baltimore. 


Before  us,  pillared  in  the  sky, 

We  saw  the  statue  soar 
Of  Washington,  serene  and  high :  — 
Could  traitors  view  that  form,  nor  fly  ? 
Could  patriots  see,  nor  gladly  die 

For  Baltimore  ? 

IV. 

"  O  city  of  our  country's  song ! 

By  that  swift  aid  we  bore 
When  sorely  pressed,  receive  the  throng 
Who  go  to  shield  our  flag  from  wrong, 
And  give  us  welcome,  warm  and  strong, 

In  Baltimore ! " 


We  had  no  arms ;  as  friends  we  came, 

As  brothers  evermore, 
To  rally  round  one  sacred  name,  — 
The  charter  of  our  power  and  fame : 
We  never  dreamed  of  guilt  and  shame 

In  Baltimore. 


The  coward  mob  upon  us  fell : 
McHenry's  flag  they  tore  : 
Surprised,  borne  backward  by  the  swell 
Beat  down  with  mad,  inhuman  yell, 
Before  us  yawned  a  traitorous  hell 
In  Baltimore ! 


The  streets  our  soldier-fathers  trod 

Blushed  with  their  children's  gore 
We  saw  the  craven  rulers  nod, 
And  dip  in  blood  the  civic  rod  — 
Shall  such  things  be,  0  righteous  God, 
In  Baltimore  ? 


No,  never !    By  that  outrage  black, 

A  solemn  oath  we  swore, 
To    bring    the    Keystone's    thousands 

back, 

Strike  down  the  dastards  who  attack, 
And  leave  a  red  and  fiery  track 

Through  Baltimore  ! 


Bow  down,  in  haste,  thy  guilty  head  I 
God's  wrath  is  swift  and  sore : 

The  sky  with  gathering  bolts  is  red,  — 

Cleanse  from  thy  skirts  the  slaughter 
shed, 

Or  make  thyself  an  ashen  bed, 
O  Baltimore  I 


TO   THE  AMERICAN  PEOPLE. 

THAT  late,  in  half-despair,  I  said  : 
"  The  Nation's  ancient  life  is  dead  ; 
Her  arm  is  weak,  her  blood  is  cold  ; 
She  hugs  the  peace  that  gives  her  gold,  — 


138 


SINCE   1861. 


The  shameful  peace,  that  sees  expire 
Each  beacon-light  of  patriot  fire, 
And  makes  her  court  a  traitors'  den,"  — 
Forgive  me  this,  my  countrymen  ! 

Oh,  in  your  long  forbearance  grand, 
Slow  to  suspect  the  treason  planned, 
Enduring  wrong,  yet  hoping  good 
For  sake  of  olden  brotherhood, 
How  grander,  how  sublimer  far 
At  the  roused  Eagle's  call  ye  are, 
Leaping  from  slumber  to  the  fight, 
For  Freedom  and  for  Chartered  Right ! 

Throughout  the  land  there  goes  a  cry; 
A  sudden  splendor  fills  the  sky : 
From  every  hill  the  banners  burst, 
Like  buds  by  April  breezes  nurst ; 
In  every  hamlet,  home,  and  mart, 
The  fire-beat  of  a  single  heart 
Keeps  time  to  strains  whose  pulses  mix 
Our  blood  with  that  of  Seventy-Six  ! 

The  shot  whereby  the  old  flag  fell 
From  Sumter's  battered  citadel 
Struck  down  the  lines  of  party  creed 
And  made  ye  One  in  soul  and  deed, — 
One  mighty  People,  stern  and  strong 
To  crush  the  consummated  wrong  ; 
Indignant  with  the  wrath  whose  rod 
Smites  as  the  awful  sword  of  God  ! 

The   cup  is   full  !      They   thought  ye 

blind : 

The  props  of  state  they  undermined  ; 
Abused  your  trust,  your  strength   de 
fied, 

And  stained  the  Nation's  name  of  pride. 
Now  lift  to  Heaven  your  loyal  brows, 
Swear  once  again  your  fathers'  vows, 
And  cut  through  traitor  hearts  a  track 
To  nobler  fame  and  freedom  back  ! 

Draw  forth  your  million  blades  as  one  ; 
Complete  the  battle  then  begun  ! 
God  fights  with  ye,  and  overhead 
Floats  the  dear  banner  of  your  dead. 
They,  and  the  glories  of  the  Past, 
The  Future,  dawning  dim  and  vast, 
And  all  the  holiest  hopes  of  Man, 
Are  beaming  triumph  in  your  van  ! 

Slow  to  resolve,  be  swift  to  do ! 

Teach  ye  the  False  how  fight  the  T rue ! 

How  bucklered  Perfidy  shall  feel 

In  her  black  heart  the  Patriot's  steel ; 

How  sure  the  bolt  that  Justice  wings; 

How  weak  the  arm  a  traitor  brings  ; 


How  mighty  they,  who  steadfast  stand 
For    Freedom's    Flag    and    Freedom's 

Land ! 
April  30, 1861. 


SCOTT  AND  THE  VETERAN. 


AN  old  and  crippled  veteran  to  the  War 

Department  came ; 
He  sought  the  Chief  who  led  him  on 

many  a  field  of  fame,  — 
The  Chief  who   shouted  "  Forward  !  " 

where'er  his  banner  rose, 
And  bore  its  stars  in  triumph  behind 

the  flying  foes. 


"  Have  you  forgotten,  General,"  the  bat 
tered  soldier  cried, 

"  The  days  of  Eighteen  Hundred  Twelve, 
when  I  was  at  your  side  ? 

Have  you  forgotten  Johnson,  that  fought 
at  Lundy's  Lane  ? 

'T  is  true,  I  'm  old  and  pensioned,  but  I 
want  to  fight  again." 


"  Have  I  forgotten  ?  "   said  the  Chief ; 

"  my  brave  old  soldier,  No  ! 
And  here 's  the  hand  I  gave  you  then, 

and  let  it  tell  you  so  : 
But  you  have  done  your  share,  my  friend ; 

you  're  crippled,  old,  and  gray, 
And  we  have  need  of  younger  arms  and 

fresher  blood  to-day." 


"  But,  General,"  cried   the  veteran,  a 

flush  upon  his  brow, 
"  The  very  men  who  fought  with  us, 

they  say,  are  traitors  now  ; 
They  've  torn  the  flag  of  Lundy's  Lane, 

—  our  old  red,  white,  and  blue ; 
And  while  a  drop  of  blood  is  left,  1  'H 

show  that  drop  is  true. 


"  I  'm  not  so  weak  but  I  can  strike,  and 

I  've  a  good  old  gun 
To  get  the  range  of  traitors'  hearts,  and 

pick  them,  one  by  one. 


MARCH. 


139 


Vour  Minie  rifles,  and  such  arms,  it 
a'n't  worth  while  to  try  : 

[  could  n't  get  the  hang  o'  them,  but  I  '11 
keep  my  powder  dry  !  " 


"  God   bless   you,  comrade ! "  said   the 

Chief  ;    "  God   bless  your   loyal 

heart ! 
Bat  younger  men  are  in  the  field,  and 

claim  to  have  their  part : 
They  '11  plant  our  sacred  banner  in  each 

rebellious  town, 
And  woe,  henceforth,  to  any  hand  that 

dares  to  pull  it  down  !  " 


"  But,   General,"  —  still  persisting,  the 

weeping  veteran  cried, 
"  I  'm  young  enough  to  follow,  so  long 

as  you,  're  my  guide  ; 
And  some,  you  know,  must  bite  the  dust, 

and  that,  at  least,  can  I,  — 
So,  give  the  young  ones  place  to  fight, 

but  me  a  place  to  die  ! 


"  If  they  should  fire  on  Pickens,  let  the 
Colonel  in  command 

Put  me  upon  the  rampart,  with  the  flag 
staff  in  my  hand : 

No  odds  how  hot  the  cannon-smoke,  or 
how  the  shells  may  fly  ; 

I  Ml  hold  the  Stare  and  Stripes  aloft,  and' 
hold  them  till  I  die ! 


"  I  'm  ready,  General,  so  you  let  a  post 

to  me  be  given, 
Where  Washington  can  see  me,  as  he 

looks  from  highest  heaven, 
And  say  to  Putnam  at  his  side,  or,  may 

be,  General  Wayne; 
There  stands  old  Billy  Johnson,  that 

fought  at  Lundy's  Lane  ! ' 


"  And  when  the  fight  is  hottest,  before 

the  traitors  fly, 
When  shell  and  ball  are  screeching  and 

bursting  in  the  sky, 
If  any  shot  should  hit  me,  and  lay  me 

on  my  face, 


My  soul  would  go  to  Washington's,  and 

not  to  Arnold's  place  !  " 
May,  1861. 


MARCH. 

WITH  rushing  winds  and  gloomy  skies 
The  dark  and  stubborn  Winter  dies  : 
Far-off,  unseen,  Spring  faintly  cries, 
Bidding  her  earliest  child  arise : 

Marcii 

By  streams  still  held  in  icy  snare, 
On  southern  hillsides,  melting  bare, 
O'er  fields  that  motley  colors  wear, 
That  summons  fills  the  changeful  air  : 

March 

What  though  conflicting  seasons  make 
Thy  days  their  field,  they  woo  or  shake 
The  sleeping  lids  of  Life  awake, 
And  hope  is  stronger  for  thy  sake, 

March ! 

Then  from  thy  mountains,  ribbed  with 

snow, 

Once  more  thy  rousing  bugle  blow, 
And  East  and  West,  and  to  and  fro, 
Announce  thy  coming  to  the  foe, 

March ! 

Say  to  the  picket,  chilled  and  numb  ; 
Say  to  the  camp's  impatient  hum  ; 
Say  to  the  trumpet  and  the  drum  : 
"  Lift  up  your  hearts,  I  come  !  I  come  !  " 

March ! 

Cry  to  the  waiting  hosts  that  stray 
On  sandy  seasides,  far  away, 
By  marshy  isle  and  gleaming  bay, 
Where    Southern    March    is  Northern 
May: 

March! 

Announce  thyself  with  welcome  noise, 
Where  Glory  's  victor-eagles  poise 
Above  the  proud,  heroic  boya 
Of  Iowa  and  Illinois : 

March . 

Then  down  the  long  Potomac's  line 
Shout  like  a  storm  on  hills  of  pine, 
Till  ramrods  ring  and  bayonets  shine  . 
"  Advance  !     The   Chieftain's    call    is 
mine,  — 

MARCH  I " 
March  1,  1862. 


140 


SINCE   1861. 


A  THOUSAND  YEARS. 

[NOVGOROD,  BUSSIA,  SEPT.  20, 1862.] 

A  THOUSAND  years !     Through  storm 

and  fire, 
With    varying    fate,   the   work    has 

grown, 

Till  Alexander  crowns  the  spire, 
Where  Kurik  laid  the  corner-stone. 

The  chieftain's   sword,  that  could  not 
rust, 

Bnt  bright  in  constant  battle  grew, 
Raised  to  the  world  a  throne  august,  — 

A  nation  grander  than  he  knew. 

Nor  he,  alone  ;  hut  those  who  have, 
Through  faith  or  deed,  an  equal  part : 

The  subtle  brain  of  Yaroslav, 

Vladimir's  arm  and  Nikon's  heart : 

The  later  hands,  that  built  so  well 
The  work  sublime  which  these  began, 

And  up  from  base  to  pinnacle 

Wrought   out  the  Empire's  mighty 
plan. 

All  these,  to-day,  are  crowned  anew, 
And  rule  in  splendor  where  they  trod, 

While  Russia's  children  throng  to  view 
Her  holy  cradle,  Novgorod. 

From   Volga's    banks ;   from   Dwina's 

side  ; 

From  pine-clad  Ural,  dark  and  long  ; 
Or  where  the  foaming  Terek's  tide 
Leaps  down  from  Kasbek,  bright  with 
. song : 

From  Altai's  chain  of  mountain-cones  ; 

Mongolian  deserts,  far  and  free  ; 
And  lands  that  bind,  through  changing 
zones, 

The  Eastern  and  the  Western  sea  ! 

To  every  race  she  gives  a  home, 
And  creeds  and  laws  enjoy  her  shade, 

rill,  far  beyond  the  dreams  of  Rome, 
Her  Caesar's  mandate  is  obeyed. 

She  blends  the  virtues  they  impart, 
And  holds,  within  her  life  combined, 

The  patient  faith  of  Asia's  heart,  — 
The  force  of  Europe's  restless  mind. 

tJhe  bids  the  nomad's  wanderings  cease  ; 
She  binds  the  wild  marauder  fast ; 


Her  ploughshares    turn  to    homes  of 

peace 
The  battle-fields  of  ages  past 

And,  nobler  yet,  she  dares  to  know 
Her  future's  task,  nor  knows  in  vain  ; 

But  strikes  at  once  the  generous  blow 
That  makes  her  millions  men  again  I 

So,  firmer-based,  her  power  expands, 
Nor  yet  has  seen  its  crowning  hour,  — 

Still  teaching  to  the  struggling  lands 
That  Peace  the  offspring  is  of  Power 

Build,  then,  the  storied  bronze,  to  tell 
The  steps  whereby  this   height    she 
trod,  — 

The  thousand  years  that  chronicle 
The  toil  of  Man,  the  help  of  God  ! 

And  may  the  thousand  years  to  come,— 
The  future  ages,  wise  and  free,  — 

Still  see  her  flag,  and  hear  her  drum 
Across  the  world,  from  sea  to  sea  !  — 

Still  find,  a  symbol  stern  and  grand, 
Her  ancient  eagle's  wings  unshorn  : 

One  head  to  watch  the  Western  Jand, 
And  one  to  guard  the  land  of  morn ! 


A  DAY  IN  MARCH. 

LOOK  forth,  Beloved,  from  thy  mansion 
high, 

By  soft  airs  fanned, 
And  see  the  summer  from  her  bluest  sky 

Surprise  the  land  ! 

See  how  the  bare  hills  bask  in  purple 
bliss 

Along  the  south  : 

On  the  brown  death  of  winter  falls  a  kiss 
From  summer's  mouth ! 

From   pines    that  weave,    among    the 
ravished  trees, 

Their  phantom  bowers, 
A  murmur  comes,  as  sought  the  ghosts 
of  bees 

The  ghosts  of  flowers. 

Though  yet  no  blood  may  swell  the  wil 
low  rind, 

No  grass-blade  start, 
A  dream  of  blossoms  fills  the  yearning 
wind, 

Of  love,  my  heart. 


THE   TEST. 


141 


Look  forth,  Beloved,  through  the  tender 
air, 

And  let  thine  eyes 
Tho  violets  be,  it  finds  not  anywhere, 

And  scentless  dies. 

Look,  and  thy  trembling  locks  of  plen 
teous  gold 

The  day  shall  see, 

And  search  no  more  where  first,  on  yon 
der  wold, 

The  cowslips  be. 

Look,  and  the  wandering  summer  not 
forlorn 

Shall  turn  aside, 

Content  to  leave  her  million  flowers  un 
born, 

Her  songs  untried. 

Drowsy  with  life  and  not  with  sleep  or 
death 

I  dream  of  'toee  : 

Breathe  forth  thy  being  in  one  answer 
ing  breath, 

And  come  to  me  ! 

Come  forth,  Beloved !    Love's  exultant 
sign 

Is  in  the  sky  : 

And  let  me  lay  my  panting  heart  to 
thine 

And  die ! 


THE   TEST. 

"FABEWELL    awhile,  my  bonnie   dar 
ling! 

One  long,  close  kiss,  and  I  depart: 
I  hear  the  angry  trumpet  snarling, 

The  drum-beat  tingles  at  my  heart." 

Behind  him,  softest  flutes  were  breath 
ing, 

Across  the  vale  their  sweet  recall ; 
Before  him  burst  the  battle,  seething 

In  flame  beneath  its  thunder-pall. 

ft.ll  sights  and  sounds  to  stay  invited ; 

The  meadows  tossed  their  foam   of 

flowers  ; 
The  lingering  Day  beheld,  delighted, 

The  dances  of  his  amorous  Hours. 

He  paused  :  again  the  foul  temptation 
Assailed  his  heart,  so  firm  before, 


And    tender    dreams,    of  Love's    crea 
tion, 
Persuaded  from  the  peaceful  shore. 

"But  no!"  he  sternly  cried;  "I  fol 
low 

The  trumpet,  not  the  shepherd's  reed 
Let  idlers  pipe  in  pastoral  hollow,  — 

Be  mine  the  sword,  and  mine  the  deed  i 

"  Farewell  to  Love  !  "   he-  murmured 

sighing : 

"  Perchance  I  lose  what  most  is  dear  ' 
But  better  there,  struck  down  and  dy 
ing, 
Than  be  a  man  and  wanton  here  !  " 

He  went  where  battle's  voice  was  loud 
est  ; 
He    pressed    where    danger    nearest 

came ; 

His  hand  advanced,  among  the  proud 
est, 

Their  banner  through  the  lines  of 
Same. 

And  there,  when  wearied  Carnage  fal 
tered 

He,  foremost  of  the  fallen,  lay, 
While  Night  looked  down  with  brow  un 
altered, 
And  breathed  the  battle's  dust  away. 

There  lying,  sore  from  wounds  untended, 
A  vision  crossed  the  starry  gleam : 

The  girl  he  loved  beside  him  bended, 
And  kissed  him  in  his  fever-dream. 

"  O  love  !  "  she  cried,  "  you  fled,  to  find 

me; 

I  left  with  you  the  daisied  vale  ; 
I  turned  from  flutes  that  wailed  behind 

me, 
To  hear  your  trumpet's  distant  hail. 

"  Your  tender  vows,  your  peaceful  kisses, 
They  scarce  outlived  the   moment's 
breath ; 

But  now  we  clasp  immortal  blisses 
Of  Passion  proved  on  brinks  of  Death  ! 

"No  fate  henceforward  shall  estrange 

her 
Who  finds  a  heart  more  brave  than 

fond  ; 

For  Love,  forsook   this    side    of  dan 
ger, 
Waits  for  the  man  who  goes  beyond  I  " 


142 


SINCE  1861. 


THE  NEVA. 

I  WALK,  as  in  a  dream, 
Beside  the  sweeping  stream, 
Wrapped    in    the    summer  midnight's 

amber  haze : 

Serene  the  temples  stand, 
And  sleep,  on  either  hand, 
The    palace-fronts   along    the    granite 
quays. 

Where  golden  domes,  remote, 

Above  the  sea-mist  float, 
The  river-arms,  dividing,  hurry  forth  ; 

And  Peter's  fortress-spire, 

A  slender  lance  of  fire, 
Still  sparkles  back  the  splendor  of  the 
North. 

The  pillared  angel  soars 
Above  the  silent  shores  ; 
Dark  from  his  rock  the  horseman  hangs 

in  air  ; 

And  down  the,  watery  line 
The  exiled  Sphinxes  pine 
For  Karnak's  morning  in  the  mellow 
glare. 

I  hear,  amid  the  hush, 
The  restless  current's  rush, 
The  Neva  murmuring  through  his  crys 
tal  zone  : 

A  voice  portentous,  deep, 
To  charm  a  monarch's  sleep 
With  dreams  of  power  resistless  as  his 
own. 

Strong  from  the  stormy  Lake, 
Pure  from  the  springs  that  break 

In  Valdai  vales  the  forest's  mossy  floor, 
Greener  than  beryl-stone 
From  fir-woods  vast  and  lone, 

In  one  full  stream  the  braided  currents 
pour. 

"  Build  up  your  granite  piles 
Around  my  trembling  isles," 
1  hear    the    River's    scornful    Genius 

say: 

"  Raise  for  eternal  time 
Your  palaces  sublime, 
And  flash  your  golden  turrets  in  the 
day  ! 

"  But  in  my  waters  cold 
A  mystery  I  hold,  — 
Of  empires  and  of  dynasties  the  fate : 


I  bend  my  haughty  will, 
Unchanged,  unconquered  still. 
And  smile  to  note  your  triumph  :  mine 
can  wait. 

"  Your  fetters  I  allow, 
As  a  strong  man  may  bow 
His  sportive  neck  to  meet  a  child's  com 
mand, 

And  curb  the  conscious  power 
That  in  one  awful  hour 
Could  whelm  your  halls  and  temples 
where  they  stand. 

"  When  infant  Rurik  first 
His  Norseland  mother  nursed, 
My  willing  flood   the  future   chieftain 

bore : 

To  Alexander's  fame 
I  lent  my  ancient  name, 
What  time  my  waves  ran  red  with  Pa 
gan  gore. 

"  Then  Peter  came.    I  laughed 
To  feel  his  little  craft 
Borne  on  my  bosom  round  the  marshy 

isles : 

His  daring  dream  to  aid, 
My  chafing  floods  I  laid, 
And  saw  my  shores  transfixed  with  ar 
rowy  piles. 

"  I  wait  the  far-off  day 
When  other  dreams  shall  sway 
The  House  of  Empire  builded  by  my 

side, — 

Dreams  that  already  soar 
From  yonder  palace-door, 
And  cast  their  wavering  colors  on  my 
tide,  — 

"  Dreams  where  white  temples  rise 
Below  the  purple  skies, 
By  waters    blue,   which  winter    never 

frets,  — 

Where  trees  of  dusky  green 
From  terraced  gardens  lean, 
And    shoot   on    high    the   reedy   min 
arets. 

"  Shadows  of  mountain-peaks 

Vex  my  unshadowed  creeks  ; 

Dark  woods  o'erhang  my  silvery  birchen 

bowers ; 

And  islands,  bald  and  high, 
Break  my  clear  round  of  sky, 
And  ghostly  odors  blow  from   distant 
flowers. 


A   STORY   FOR  A   CHILD. 


143 


"  Then,  ere  the  cold  winds  chase 
These  visions  from  my  face, 

I  see  the  starry  phantom  of  a  crown, 
Beside  whose  blazing  gold 
This  cheating  pomp  is  cold, 

A  moment  hover,  as  the  veil  drops  down. 

"  Build  on  !     That  day  shall  see 
My  streams  forever  free. 
Swift   as  the  wind,   and   silent  as  the 

snow, 

The  frost  shall  split  each  wall : 
Your  domes  shall  crack  and  fall : 
My  bolts  of  ice  shall  strike  your  barriers 
low ! " 

On  palace,  temple,  spire, 
The  morn's  descending  fire 

In  thousand  sparkles  o'er  the  city  fell : 
Life's  rising  murmur  drowned 
The  Neva  where  he  wound 

Between  his  isles  :  he  keeps  his  secret 
well. 


A  STOEY  FOR  A  CHILD. 

i. 

LITTLK  one,  come  to  my  knee  ! 

Hark  how  the  rain  is  pouring 
Over  the  roof,  in  the  pitch-black  night, 

And  the  wind  in  the  woods  a-roar- 
ing! 


Hush,  my  darling,  and  listen, 

Then  pay  for  the  story  with  kisses  : 

Father  was  lost  in  the  pitch-black  night, 
In  just  such  a  storm  as  this  is  1 


High  up  on  the  lonely  mountains, 
Where  the  wild   men   watched   and 

waited ; 
Wolves  in  the  forest,  and  bears  in  the 

bush, 
And  I  on  my  path  belated. 


The  rain  and  the  night  together 

Came  down,  and  the  wind  came  after, 

Bending  the  props  of  the  pine-tree  roof, 
And  snapping  many  a  rafter. 


I  crept  along  in  the  darkness, 

Stunned,  and  bruised,  and  blinded  — • 
Crept  to  a  fir  with  thick-set  boughs, 

And  a  sheltering  rock  behind  it. 


There,  from  the  blowing  and  raining 
Crouching,  I  sought  to  hide  me : 

Something    rustled,    two    green    eyes 

shone, 
And  a  wolf  lay  down  beside  me. 


Little  one,  be  not  frightened ; 

I  and  the  wolf  together, 
Side   by  side,  through  the  long,  long 
night, 

Hid  from  the  awful  weather. 


His  wet  fur  pressed  against  me  ; 

Each  of  us  warmed  the  other  : 
Each  of  us  felt,  in  the  stormy  dark, 

That  beast  and  man  was  brother. 


And  when  the  falling  forest 
No  longer  crashed  in  warning, 

Each  of  us  Went  from  our  hiding-place 
Forth  in  the  wild,  wet  morning. 


Darling,  kiss  me  payment ! 

Hark  how  the  wind  is  roaring  : 
Father's  house  is  a  better  place 

When  the  stormy  rain  is  pouring ! 


HOME  PASTORALS. 


AD   AMICOS. 

MOUNT   CUBA,  OCTOBER  10,  1874 

SOMETIMES  an  hour  of  Fate's  serenest  weather 

Strikes  through  our  changeful  sky  its  comiug  beams; 

Somewhere  above  us,  in  elusive  ether, 
Waits  the  fulfilment  of  our  dearest  dreams. 

So,  when  the  wayward  time  and  gift  have  blended, 
When  hope  beholds  relinquished  visions  won, 

The  heavens  are  broken  and  a  blue  more  splendid 
Holds  in  its  bosom  an  enchanted  sun. 

Then  words  unguessed,  in  faith's  own  shyness  guarded, 
To  ears  unused  their  welcome  music  bear  : 

Then  hands  help  on  that  doubtingly  retarded, 
And  love  is  liberal  as  the  Summer  air. 

The  thorny  chaplet  of  a  slow  probation 

Becomes  the  laurel  Fate  so  long  denied  ; 
The  form  achieved  smiles  on  the  aspiration, 

And  dream  is  deed  and  Art  is  justified  ! 

Ah,  nevermore  the  dull  neglect,  that  smothers 
The  bard's  dependent  being,  shall  return  ; 

Forgotten  lines  are  on  the  lips  of  others, 

Extinguished  thoughts  in  other  spirits  burn  ! 

Still  hoarded  lives  what  seemed  so  spent  and  wasted, 
And  echoes  come  from  dark  or  empty  years ; 

Here  brims  the  golden  cup,  no  more  untasted, 
But  fame  is  dim  through  mists  of  grateful  tears. 

I  sang  but  as  the  living  spirit  taught  me, 

Beat  towards  the  light,  perchance  with  wayward  wing ; 
And  still  must  answer,  for  the  cheer  you  've  brought  me  : 

I  sang  because  I  could  not  choose  but  sing. 

From  that  wide  air,  whose  greedy  silence  swallows 
So  many  voices,  even  as  mine  seemed  lost, 

I  hear  you  speak,  and  sudden  glory  follows, 
As  from  a  falling  tongue  of  Pentecost. 

So  heard  and  hailed  by  you,  that,  standing  nearest, 
Blend  love  with  faith  in  one  far-.-hining  flame, 

I  hold  anew  the  earliest  gift  and  dearest, — 
The  happy  Song  that  cares  not  for  its  fame ! 

B.  T. 


HOME  PASTOEALS. 


PROEM. 


Now,  when  the  mocking-bird,  returned  from  his  Florida  winter, 

Sings  where  the  sprays  of  the  elm  first  touch  the  plumes  of  the  cypress; 

When  on  the  southern  porch  the  stars  of  the  jessamine  sparkle 

Faint  in  the  dusk  of  leaves  ;  and  the  thirsty  ear  of  the  Poet 

Calls  for  the  cup  of  song  himself  must  mix  ere  it  gladden, — 

Careful  vintager  first,  though  latest  guest  at  the  banquet,  — 

Where  shall  he  turn  ?     What  foreign  Muse  invites  to  her  vineyard  ? 

Out  of  what  bloom  of  the  Past  the  wine  of  remoter  romances  ? 

Foxy  our  grapes,  of  earthy  tang  and  a  wildwood  astringence 

Unto  fastidious  tongues  ;  but  later,  it  may  be,  their  juices, 

Mellowed  by  time,  shall  grow  to  be  sweet  on  the  palates  of  others. 

So  will  I  paint  in  my  verse  the  forms  of  the  life  I  am  born  to, 

Not  mediaeval,  or  ancient !     For  whatso  hath  palpable  colors, 

Drawn  from  being  and  blood,  nor  thrown  by  the  spectrum  of  Fancy, 

Charms  in  the  Future  even  as  truth  of  the  Past  in  the  Present. 


Not  for  this,  nor  for  nearer  voices  of  intimate  counsel,  — 

When  were  ever  they  heeded  ?  —  but  since  I  am  sated  with  visions, 

Sated  with  all  the  siren  Past  and  its  rhythmical  phantoms, 

Here  will  I  seek  my  songs  in  the  quiet  fields  of  my  boyhood, 

Here,  where  the  peaceful  tent  of  home  is  pitched  for  a  season. 

High  is  the  house  and  sunny  the  lawn  :  the  capes  of  the  woodlands, 

Bluff,  and  buttressed  with  many  boughs,  are  gates  to  the  distance 

Blue  with  hill  over  hill,  that  sink  as  the  pausing  of  music. 

Here  the  hawthorn  blossoms,  the  breeze  is  blithe  in  the  orchards. 

Winds  from  the  Chesapeake  dull  the  sharper  edge  of  the  winters, 

Letting  the  cypress  live,  and  the  mounded  box,  and  the  holly  ; 

Here  the  chestnuts  fall  and  the  cheeks  of  peaches  are  crimson, 

Ivy  clings  to  the  wall  and  sheltered  fattens  the  fig-tree. 

North  and  South  are  as  one  in  the  blended  growth  of  the  region, 

One  in  the  temper  of  man,  and  ancient,  inherited  habits. 


Yet,  though  fair  as  the  loveliest  landscapes  of  pastoral  England, 

Who  hath  touched  them  with  song  ?  and  whence  my  music,  and  whither  1 


148  HOME   PASTORALS. 

Life  still  bears  the  stamp  of  its  early  struggle  and  labor, 
Still  is  shorn  of  its  color  by  pious  Quaker  repression, 
Still  is  turbid  with  calm,  or  only  swift  in  the  shallows. 
Gone  are  the  olden  cheer,  the  tavern-dance  and  the  fox-hunt, 
Muster  at  trainings,  buxom  lasses  that  rode  upon  pillions, 
Husking-parties  and  jovial  home-comings  after  the  wedding, 
Gone,  as  they  never  had  been  !  —  and  now,  the  serious  people 
Solemnly  gather  to  hear  some  wordy  itinerant  speaker 
Talking  of  Temperance,  Peace,  or  the  Right  of  Suffrage  for  Women 
Sport,  that  once  like  a  boy  was  equally  awkward  and  restless, 
Sits  with  thumb  in  his  mouth,  while  a  petulant  ethical  bantling 
Struts  with  his  rod,  and  threatens  our  careless  natural  joyance. 
Weary  am  I  with  all  this  preaching  the  force  of  example, 
Painful  duty  to  self,  and  painfuller  still  to  one's  neighbor, 
Moral  shibboleths,  dinned  in  one's  ears  with  slavering  unction, 
Till,  for  the  sake  of  a  change,  profanity  loses  its  terrors. 


Clearly,  if  song  is  here  to  be  found,  I  must  seek  it  within  me  : 
Song,  the  darling  spirit  that  ever  asserted  her  freedom, 
Soaring  on  sunlit  wing  above  the  clash  of  opinions, 
Poised  at  the  height  of  Good  with  a  sweeter  and  lovelier  instinct ! 
Call  thee  I  will  not,  my  life's  one  dear  and  beautiful  Angel, 
Wayward,  faithful  and  fond  ;  but,  like  the  Friends  in  the  Meeting, 
Waiting,  will  so  dispose  my  soul  in  the  pastoral  stillness, 
That,  denied  to  Desire,  Obedience  yet  may  invite  thee  ! 


MAY-TIME. 


YES,  it  is  May  !  though  not  that  the  young  leaf  pushes  its  velvet 

Out  of  the  sheath,  that  the  stubbornest  sprays  are  beginning  to  bourgeon, 

Larks  responding  aloft  to  the  mellow  flute  of  the  bluebird, 

Nor  that  song  and  sunshine  and  odors  of  life  are  immiugled 

Even  as  wines  in  a  cup  ;  but  that  May,  with  her  delicate  philtres 

Drenches  the  veins  and  the  valves  of  the  heart,  —  a  double  possession, 

Touching  the  sleepy  sense  with  sweet,  irresistible  languor, 

Piercing,  in  turn,  the  languor  with  flame  :  as  the  spirit,  requickened 

Stirred  in  the  womb  of  the  world,  foreboding  a  birth  and  a  being ! 


Who  can  hide  from  her  magic,  break  her  insensible  thraldom, 
Clothing  the  wings  of  eager  delight  as  with  plumage  of  trouble  ? 
Sweeter,  perchance,  the  embryo  Spring,  forerunner  of  April, 
When  on  banks  that  slope  to  the  south  the  saxifrage  wakens, 
When,  beside  the  dentils  of  frost  that  cornice  the  road-side, 
Weeds  are  a  promise,  and  woods  betray  the  trailing  arbutus. 
Once  is  the  sudden  miracle  seen,  the  truth  and  its  rapture 
Felt,  and  the  pulse  of  the  possible  May  is  throbbing  already. 
Thus  unto  me,  a  boy,  the  clod  that  was  warm  in  the  sunshine, 
Murmurs  of  thaw,  and  imagined  hurry  of  growth  in  the  herbage, 
Airs  from  over  the  southern  hills,  —  and  something  within  me 
Catching  a  deeper  sign  from  these  than  ever  the  senses,  — 
Came  as  a  call :  I  awoke,  and  heard,  and  endeavored  to  answer. 


MAY-TIME.  149 

"Whence  should  fall  in  my  lap  the  sweet,  impossible  marvel  ? 
When  would  the  silver  fay  appear  from  the  willowy  thicket  ? 
When  from  the  yielding  rock  the  gnome  with  his  basket  of  jewels? 
:  When,  ah  when  ?  "  I  cried,  on  the  steepest  perch  of  the  hillside 
Standing  with  arms  outspread,  and  waiting  a  wind  that  should  bear  me 
Over  the  apple-tree  tops  and  over  the  farms  of  the  valley. 


He,  that  will,  let  him  backward  set  the  stream  of  his  fancy, 
So  to  evoke  a  dream  from  the  ruined  world  of  his  boyhood ! 
Lo,  it  is  easy  !     Yonder,  lapped  in  the  folds  of  the  uplands, 
Bickers  the  brook,  to  warmer  hollows  southerly  creeping, 
Where  the  veronica's  eyes  are  blue,  the  buttercup  brightens, 
Where  the  anemones  blush,  the  coils  of  fern  are  unrolling 
Hour  by  hour,  and  over  them  flutter  the  sprinkles  of  shadow. 
There  shall  I  lie  and  dangle  my  naked  feet  in  the  water, 
Watching  the  sleeping  buds  as  one  after  one  they  awaken, 
Seeking  a  lesson  in  each,  a  brookside  primrose  of  Wordsworth  1  — 
Lie  in  the  lap  of  May,  as  a  babe  that  loveth  the  cradle, 
I,  whom  her  eye  inspires,  whom  the  breath  of  her  passion  arouses? 
Say,  shall  I  stray  with  bended  head  to  look  for  her  posies, 
When  with  other  wings  than  the  coveted  lift  of  the  breezes 
Fnr  I  am  borne,  at  her  call :  and  the  pearly  abysses  are  parted 
Under  my  flight :  the  glimmering  edge  of  the  planet,  receding, 
Kounds  to  the  splendider  sun  and  ripens  to  glory  of  color. 
Veering  at  will,  I  view  from  a  crest  of  the  jungled  Antilles 
Sparkling,  limitless  billows  of  greenness,  falling  and  flowing 
Into  fringes  of  palm  and  the  foam  of  the  blossoming  coffee, — 
Cratered  isles  in  the  offing,  milky  blurs  of  the  coral 
Keys,  and  vast,  beyond,  the  purple  arc  of  the  ocean  : 
Or,  in  the  fanning  furnace-winds  of  the  tennntless  Pampas, 
Hear  the  great  leaves  clash,  the  shiver  and  hiss  of  the  reed-bed*. 
Thus  for  the  crowded  fulness  of  life  I  leave  its  beginnings, 
Not  content  to  feel  the  sting  of  an  exquisite  promise 
Ever  renewed  and  accepted,  and  ever  freshly  forgotten. 


Wherefore,  now,  recall  the  pictures  of  memory  ?     Wherefore 

Yearn  for  a  fairer  seat  of  life  than  this  I  have  chosen  ? 

Ah,  while  my  quiver  of  wandering  years  was  yet  unexhausted, 

Treading  the  lands,  a  truant  that  wasted  the  gifts  of  his  freedom, 

Sweet  was  the  sight  of  a  home  —  or  tent,  or  cottage,  or  castle,  — 

Sweet  unto  pain  ;  and  never  beheld  I  a  Highlander's  shieling, 

Never  a  Flemish  hut  by  a  lazy  canal  and  its  pollards, 

Never  the  snowy  gleam  of  a  porch  through  Apennine  orchards, 

Never  a  nest  of  life  on  the  hoary  hills  of  Judaea, 

Dropped  on  the  steppes  of  the  Don,  or  hidden  in  valleys  of  Norway 

But,  with  the  fond  and  foolish  trick  of  a  heart  that  was  homeless, 

Each  was  mine,  as  I  passed  :  I  entered  in  and  possessed  it, 

Looked,  in  fancy,  forth,  and  adjusted  my  life  to  the  landscape. 

Easy  it  seemed,  to  shift  the  habit  of  blood  as  a  mantle, 

Fable  a  Past,  and  lightly  take  the  form  of  the  Future, 

So  that  a  rest  were  won,  a  hold  for  the  filaments,  floating 

Loose  in  the  winds  of  Life.     Here,  now,  behold  it  accomplished  ! 

Nay,  but  the  restless  Fate,  the  certain  Nemesis  follows, 

As  to  the  bird  the  voice  that  bids  him  prepare  for  his  passage, 


150  HOME  PASTORALS. 

Saying  :  "  Not  this  is  the  whole,  not  these,  nor  any,  the  borders 
Set  for  thy  being  ;  this  measured,  slow  repetition  of  Nature, 
Painting,  effacing,  in  turn,  with  hardly  a  variant  outline, 
Cannot  replace  for  thee  the  Earth's  magnificent  frescos  ! 
Art  thou  content  to  inhabit  a  simple  pastoral  chamber, 
Leaving  the  endless  halls  of  her  grandeur  and  glory  untrodden  ? 


Man,  I  answer,  is  more:  I  am  glutted  with  physical  beauty 

Born  of  the  suns  and  rains  and  the  plastic  throes  of  the  ages. 

Man  is  more ;  but  neither  dwarfed  like  a  tree  of  the  Arctic 

Vales,  nor  clipped  into  shape  as  a  yew  in  the  gardens  of  princes. 

Give  me  to  know  him,  here,  where  inherited  laws  and  disguises 

Hide  him  at  times  from  himself,  — where  his  thought  is  chiefly  collectir*, 

Where,  with  numberless  others  fettered  like  slaves  in  a  coffle, 

Each  insists  he  is  free,  inasmuch  as  his  bondage  is  willing. 

Who  hath  rent  from  the  babe  the  primitive  rights  of  his  nature? 

Who  hath  fashioned  his  yoke  ?  who  patterned  beforehand  his  manhood  ? 

Say,  shall  never  a  soul  be  moved  to  challenge  its  portion, 

Seek  for  a  wider  heritage  lost,  a  new  disenthralment, 

Sending  a  root  to  be  fed  from  the  deep  original  sources, 

So  that  the  fibres  wax  till  they  split  the  centuried  granite  ? 

Surely,  starting  alike  at  birth  from  the  ignorant  Adam, 

Every  type  of  the  race  were  here  indistinctly  repeated, 

Hinted  in  hopes  and  desires,  and  harmless  divergence  of  habit, 

Save  that  the  law  of  the  common  mind  is  invisibly  written 

Even  on  our  germs,  and  Life  but  warms  into  color  the  letters. 


Thence,  it  may  be,  accustomed  to  dwell  in  a  moving  horizon, 
Here,  alas  !  the  steadfast  circle  of  things  is  a  weary 
Round  of  monotonous  forms :  I  am  haunted  by  livelier  visions. 
Linking  men  and  their  homes,  endowing  both  with  the  language, 
Sweeter  than  speech,  the  soul  detects  in  a  natural  picture, 
I  to  my  varying  moods  the  fair  remembrances  summon, 
Glad  that  once  and  somewhere  each  was  a  perfect  possession. 
Two  will  I  paint,  the  forms  of  the  double  passion  of  May-time,  — 
Rest  and  activity,  indolent  calm  and  the  sweep  of  the  senses. 
One,  the  soft  green  lap  of  a  deep  Dalecarlian  valley, 
Sheltered  by  piny  hills  and  the  distant  porphyry  mountains ; 
Low  and  red  the  house,  and  the  meadow  spotted  with  cattle ; 
All  things  fair  and  clear  in  the  light  of  the  midsummer  Sabbath, 
Touching,  beyond  the  steel-blue  lake  and  the  twinkle  of  birch-trees, 
Houses  that  nestle  like  chicks  around  the  motherly  church-roof. 
There,  I  know,  there  is  innocence,  ancient  duty  and  honor, 
Love  that  looks  from  the  eye  and  truth  that  sits  on  the  forehead, 
Pure,  sweet  blood  of  health,  and  the  harmless  freedom  of  nature, 
Witless  of  blame  ;  for  the  heart  is  safe  in  inviolate  childhood. 
Dear  is  the  scene,  but  it  fades  :  I  see,  with  a  leap  of  the  pulses, 
Tawny  under  the  lidless  sun  the  sand  of  the  Desert, 
Fiery  solemn  hills,  and  the  burning  green  of  the  date-trees 
Belting  the  Nile  :  the  tramp  of  the  curvetting  stallions  is  muffled; 
Brilliantly  stamped  on  the  blue  are  the  white  and  scarlet  of  turbans  ; 
Lances  prick  the  sky  with  a  starry  glitter;  the  fulness, 
Joy,  and  delight  of  life  are  sure  of  the  day  and  the  morrow, 
Certain  the  gifts  of  sense,  and  the  simplest  order  suffices. 


AUGUST.  151 

Breathing  again,  as  once,  the  perfect  air  of  the  Desert, 
Good  it  seems  to  escape  from  the  endless  menace  of  duty, 
There,  where  the  will  is  free,  and  wilfully  plays  with  its  freedom, 
And  the  lack  of  will  for  the  evil  thing  is  a  virtue. 


Man  is  more,  I  have  said :   hut  the  subject  mood  is  a  fashion 
Wrought  of  his  lighter  mind  and  dyed  with  the  hues  of  his  senses. 
Then  to  be  truly  more,  to  be  verily  free,  to  be  master 
As  beseems  to  the  haughty  soul  that  is  lifted  by  knowledge 
Over  the  multitude's  law,  enforcing  their  own  acquiescence,  — 
Lifted  to  longing  and  will,  in  its  satisfied  loneliness  centred,  — 
This  prohibits  the  cry  of  the  nerves,  the  weak  lamentation 
Shaming  my  song :  for  I  know  whence  cometh  its  languishing  burden. 
Impotent  all  I  have  dreamed,  —  and  the  calmer  vision  assures  me 
Such  were  barren,  and  vapid  the  taste  of  joy  that  is  skin-deep. 
Better  the  nest  than  the  wandering  wing,  the  loving  possession, 
Intimate,  ever-renewed,  than  the  circle  of  shallower  changes. 


AUGUST. 


DEAD  is  the  air,  and  still !  the  leaves  of  the  locust  and  walnut 
Lazily  hang  from  the  boughs,  inlaying  their  intricate  outlines 
Rather  on  space  than  the  sky,  —  on  a  tideless  expansion  of  slumber. 
Faintly  afar  in  the  depths  of  the  duskily  withering  grasses 
Katydids  chirp,  and  I  hear  the  monotonous  rattle  of  crickets. 
Dead  is  the  air,  and  ah  !   the  breath  that  was  wont  to  refresh  me 
Out  of  the  volumes  I  love,  the  heartful,  whispering  pages, 
Dies  on  the  type,  and  I  see  but  wearisome  characters  only. 
Therefore  be  still,  thou  yearning  voice  from  the  garden  in  Jena,  — 
Still,  thou  answering  voice  from  the  park-side  cottage  in  Weimar, — 
Still,  sentimental  echo  from  chambers  of  office  in  Dresden,  — 
Ye,  and  the  feebler  and  farther  voices  that  sound  in  the  pauses  ! 
Each  and  all  to  the  shelves  I  return  :  for  vain  is  your  commerce 
Now,  when  the  world  and  the  brain  are  numb  in  the  torpor  of  August. 


Over  the  tasselled  corn,  and  fields  of  the  twice-blossomed  clover, 
Dimly  the  hills  recede  in  the  reek  of  the  colorless  hazes  : 
Dull  and  lustreless,  now,  the  burnished  green  of  the  woodlands ; 
Leaves  of  blackberry  briers  are  bronzed  and  besprinkled  with  copper ; 
Weeds  in  the  unmown  meadows  are  blossoming  purple  and  yellow, 
Roughly  entwined,  a  wreath  for  the  tan  and  wrinkles  of  Summer. 
Where  shall  I  turn  ?     What  path  attracts  the  indifferent  footstep, 
Eager  no  more  as  in  June,  nor  lifted  with  wings  as  in  May-time  1 
Whitherward  look  for  a  goal,  when  buds  have  exhausted  their  promise 
Harvests  are  reaped,  and  grapes  and  berries  are  waiting  for  Autumn! 
Wander,  my  feet,  as  ye  list !     I  am  careless,  to-day,  to  direct  yon. 
Take,  here,  the  path  by  the  pines,  the  russet  carpet  of  needles 
Stretching  from  wood  to  wood,  and  hidden  from  sight  by  the  orchard  ! 
Here,  in  the  sedge  of  the  slope,  the  centuary,  pink  as  a  sea-shell, 
Opens  her  stars  all  at  once,  and  with  finer  than  tropical  spices 
Sweetens  the  season's  drouth,  the  censer  of  fields  that  are  sterile. 


152  HOME   PASTORALS. 

Now,  from  the  height  of  the  grove,  between  the  irregular  tree-trunks, 
Over  the  falliug  fields  and  the  meadowy  curves  of  the  valley, 
Glimmer  the  peaceful  farms,  the  mossy  roofs  of  the  houses. 
Gables  gray  of  the  neighboring  barns,  and  gleams  of  the  highway 
Climbing  the  ridges  beyond  to  dip  iu  the  dream  of  a  forest. 


Ah,  forsaking  the  shade,  and  slowly  crushing  the  stubble, 

Parting  the  viscous  roseate  stems  and  the  keen  pennyroyal, 

Rises  a  different  scene,  suggestion  of  heat  and  of  stillness,  — 

Heat  as  intense  and  stillness  as  dumb,  the  immaculate  ether's 

Hush  when  it  vaults  the  waveless  Mediterranean  sea-floor ; 

Golden  the  hills  of  Cos,  with  pencilled  cerulean  shadows  ; 

Phantoms  of  Carian  shores  that  are  painted  and  fade  in  the  distance ; 

Patmos  behind,  and  westward  the  flushed  Ariadnean  Naxos, — 

Once  as  I  saw  them  sleeping,  drugged  by  the  poppy  of  Summer. 

There,  indeed,  was  the  air,  as  with  floating  stars  of  the  thistle 

Filled  with  impalpable  forms,  regrets,  possibilities,  longings, 

Beauty  that  was  and  was  not,  and  Life  that  was  rtr-thmic  and  joyous, 

So  that  the  sun-baked  clay  the  peasant  took  for  his  'vine-jars 

Brighter  than  gold  I  thought,  and  the  red  acidity  nectar. 

Here,  at  mv  feet,  the  clay  is  clay  and  a  nuisance  the  stubble, 

Flaring  St.  John's-wort,  milk-weed,  and  coarse,  unpoetical  mullein ;  — 

Yet,  were  it  not  for  the  poets,  say,  is  the  asphodel  fairer? 

Were  not  the  mullein  as  dear,  had  Theocritus  sung  it,  or  Bion  1 

Yea,  but  they  did  not ;  and  we,  whose  fancy's  tenderest  tendrils 

Shoot  unsupported,  and  wither,  for  want  of  a  Past  we  can  cling  to, 

We,  so  starved  in  the  Present,  so  weary  of  singing  the  Future,  — 

What  is  't  to  us,  if,  haply,  a  score  of  centuries  later, 

Milk-weed  inspires  Patagoiiian  tourists,  and  mulleins  are  classic  ? 


Idly  balancing  fortunes,  feeling  the  spite  of  them,  maybe,  — 

For  the  little  withheld  outweighs  the  much  that  is  given,  -  - 

Feeling  the  pang  of  the  brain,  the  endless,  unquenchable  yevrmig 

Born  of  the  knowledge  of  Beauty,  not  to  be  shared  or  imparted, 

Slowly  I  stray,  and  drop  by  degrees  to  the  thickets  of  alder 

Fringing  a  couch  of  the  stream,  a  basin  of  watery  slumber. 

Broken,  it  seems ;  for  the  splash  and  the  drip  and  the  bubbles  betoken 

What  ?  — the  bath  of  a  nymph,  the  bashful  strife  of  a  Hylas  1 

Broad  is  the  back,  and  bent  from  an  un-Olympian  stooping, 

Narrow  the  loins  and  firm,  the  white  of  the  thighs  and  the  shoulders 

Changing  to  reddest  and  toughest  of  tan  at  the  knees  and  the  elbows. 

Is  it  a  faun  ?     He  sees  me,  nor  cares  to  hide  in  the  thickets. 

Faun  of  the  bog  is  he,  a  sylvan  creature  of  Galway 

Come  from  the  ditch  below,  to  cleanse  him  of  sweat  and  of  muck-stain. 

Willing  to  give  me  speech,  as,  naked,  he  stands  in  the  shallows. 

Something  of  coarse,  uncouth,  barbaric,  he  leaves  on  the  bank  there ; 

Something  of  primitive  human  fairness  cometh  to  clothe  him. 

Were  he  not  bent  with  the  pick,  but  straightened  from  reaching  the  bunche* 

Hung  from  the  mulberry  branches,  —  heard  he  the  bacchanal  cymbals, 

Took  from  the  sun  an  even  gold  on  the  web  of  his  muscles, 

Knew  the  bloom  of  his  stunted  bud  of  delight  of  the  senses,  — 

Then  as  faun  or  shepherd  he  might  have  been  welcome  in  marble. 

Yea,  but  he  is  not ;  and  I,  requiring  the  beautiful  balance, 

Music  of  life  in  the  body,  and  limbs  too  fair  to  b»  hidden, 


AUGUST.  153 

Find,  indeed,  some  delicate  colors  and  possible  graces, — 
Moral  hints  of  the  man  beneath  the  unsavory  garments,  — 
Find  them,  and  sigh,  lamenting  the  law  reversed  of  the  races 
Starting  the  world  afresh  on  the  basis  unlovely  of  Labor. 


Was  it  a  spite  of  fate  that  blew  me  hither,  an  exile, 
Still  unweaned,  and  not  to  be  weaned,  from  the  milk  I  was  born  to  • 
Bitter  the  stranger's  bread  to  the  homesick,  hungering  palate ; 
Bitterer  still  to  the  soul  the  taste  of  the  food  that  is  foreign  ! 
Yet  must  I  take  it,  yet  live,  and  somehow  seem  to  be  healthy, 
Lest  my  neighbors,  perchance,  be  shocked  by  an  uncomprehended 
Violent  clamor  for  that  which  I  crave  and  they  cannot  supply  me,— 
Hunger  unmeet  for  the  times,  anachronistical  passions,  — 
Beauty  seeming  distorted  because  the  rule  is  distortion. 
Here  is  a  tangle  which,  now,  too  idle  am  I  to  upravel, 
Snared,  moreover,  by  bitter-sweet,  moon-seed,  and  riotous  fox-grape, 
Meshing  the  thickets  :  procul,  0  procul,  unpractical  fancies  ! 
Verily,  thus  bewildering  myself  in  the  maze  of  aesthetic, 
Solveless  problems,  the  feet  were  welluigh  heedlessly  fettered. 
Thoughtless,  't  is  true,  I  relinquished  my  books  ;  but  crescit  eundo 
Wisely  was  said,  —  for  desperate  vacancy  prompted  the  ramble, 
Memories  prolonged,  and  a  phantom  of  logic  urges  it  onward. 


Here  are  the  fields  again  !     The  soldierly  maize  in  tassel 

Stands  on  review,  and  carries  the  scabbarded  ears  in  its  arm-pits. 

Rustling  I  part  the  ranks,  —  the  close,  engulfing  battalions 

Shaking  their  plumes  overhead,  —  and,  wholly  bewildered  and  heated, 

Gain  the  top  of  the  ridge,  where  stands,  colossal,  the  pin-oak. 

Yonder,  a  mile  away,  I  see  the  roofs  of  the  village, — 

See  the  crouching  front  of  the  meeting-house  of  the  Quakers, 

Oddly  conjoined  with  the  whittled  Presbyterian  steeple. 

Right  and  left  are  the  homes  of  the  slow,  conservative  farmers, 

Loyal  people  and  true,  but,  now  that  the  battles  are  over, 

Zealous  for  Temperance,  Peace,  and  the  Right  of  Suffrage  for  Women. 

Orderly,  moral,  are  they,  —  at  least,  in  the  sense  of  suppression  ; 

Given  to  preaching  of  rules,  inflexible  outlines  of  duty  ; 

Seeing  the  sternness  of  life,  but,  alas !   overlooking  its  graces. 

Let  roe  be  juster  :  the  scattered  seeds  of  the  graces  are  planted 

Widely  apart ;  but  the  trumpet-vine  on  the  porch  is  a  token  ; 

Yea,  and  awake  and  alive  are  the  forces  of  love  and  affection, 

Plastic  forces  that  work  from  the  tenderer  models  of  beauty. 

Who  shall  dare  to  speak  of  the  possible  ?     Who  shall  encounter 

Pity  and  wrath  and  reproach,  recalling  the  record  immortal 

Left  by  the  races  when  Beauty  was  law  and  Joy  was  religion  ? 

Who  to  the  Duty  in  drab  shall  bring  the  garlanded  Pleasure  1  — 

Break  with  the  chant  of  the  gods,  the  gladsome  timbrels  of  morning, 

Nasal,  monotonous  chorals,  sung  by  the  sad  congregation  ? 

Better  it  were  to  sleep  with  the  owl,  to  house  with  the  hornet, 

Than  to  conflict  with  the  satisfied  moral  sense  of  the  people. 


Nay,  but  let  me  be  just ;  nor  speak  with  the  alien  language 

Born  of  my  blood  ;  for,  cradled  among  them,  I  know  them  and  lore  them. 


L54  HOME   PASTORALS. 

Was  it  my  fault,  if  a  strain  of  the  distant  and  dead  generations 

Rose  in  my  being,  renewed,  and  made  me  other  than  these  are  ? 

Purer,  perhaps,  their  habit  of  law  than  the  freedom  they  shrink  from  ; 

So,  restricted  by  will,  a  little  indulgence  is  riot. 

They,  content  with  the  glow  of  a  carefully  tempered  twilight, 

Measured  pulses  of  joy,  and  colorless  growth  of  the  senses, 

Stand  aghast  at  my  dream  of  the  sun,  and  the  sound,  and  the  splendor 

Mine  it  is,  and  remains,  resenting  the  threat  of  suppression, 

Stubbornly  shaping  my  life,  and  feeding  with  fragments  its  hunger. 

Drifted  from  Attican  hills  to  stray  on  a  Scythian  level, 

So  unto  me  it  appears,  —  unto  them  a  perversion  and  scandal. 


Lo !  in  the  vapors,  the  sun,  colossal  and  crimson  and  beamless, 
Touches  the  woodland  ;  fingers  of  air  prepare  for  the  dew-fall. 
Life  is  fresher  and  sweeter,  insensibly  toning  to  softness 
Needs  and  desires  that  are  but  the  broidered  hem  of  its  mantle, 
Not  the  texture  of  daily  use  ;  and  the  soul  of  the  landscape, 
Breathing  of  justified  rest,  of  peace  developed  by  patience, 
Lures  me  to  feel  the  exquisite  senses  that  come  from  denial, 
Sharper  passion  of  Beauty  never  fulfilled  in  external 
Forms  or  conditions,  but  always  a  fugitive  has-been  or  may-be. 
Bright  and  alive  as  a  want,  incarnate  it  dozes  and  fattens. 
Thus,  in  aspiring,  I  reach  what  were  lost  in  the  idle  possession  ; 
Helped  by  the  laws  I  resist,  the  forces  that  daily  depress  me ; 
Bearing  in  secreter  joy  a  luminous  life  in  my  bosom, 
Fair  as  the  stars  on  Cos,  the  moon  on  the  boscage  of  Naxos  ! 
Thus  the  skeleton  Hours  are  clothed  with  rosier  bodies : 
Thus  the  buried  Bacchanals  rise  unto  lustier  dances  : 
Thus  the  neglected  god  returns  to  his  desolate  temple : 
Beauty,  thus  rethroned,  accepts  and  blesses  her  children  ! 


NOVEMBER. 

i. 

WRAPPED  in  his  sad-colored  cloak,  the  Day,  like  a  Puritan,  standetn 
Stern  in  the  joyless  fields,  rebuking  the  lingering  color,  — 
Dying  hectic  of  leaves  and  the  chilly  blue  of  the  asters,  — 
Hearing,  perchance,  the  croak  of  a  crow  on  the  desolate  tree-top, 
Breathing  the  reek  of  withered  weeds,  or  the  drifted  and  sodden 
Splendors  of  woodland,  as  whoso  piously  groaneth  in  spirit : 
'  Vanity,  verily  ;  yea,  it  is  vanity,  let  me  forsake  it ! 
Yea,  let  it  fade,  for  Life  is  the  empty  clash  of  a  cymbal, 
Joy  a  torch  in  the  hands  of  a  fool,  and  Beauty  a  pitfall !  " 


Once,  I  remember,  when  years  had  the  long  duration  of  ages, 
Came,  with  November,  despair  ;  for  summer  had  vanished  forever. 
Lover  of  light,  my  boyish  heart  as  a  lover's  was  jealous, 
Followed  forsaking  suns  and  felt  its  passion  rejected, 
Saw  but  Age  and  Death,  in  the  whole  wide  circle  of  Nature 
Throned  forever ;  and  hardly  yet  have  I  steadied  by  knowledge 
Faith  that  faltered  and  patience  that  was  but  a  weary  submission. 
Though  to  the  right  and  left  I  hear  the  call  of  the  buskers 


NOVEMBER.  155 

Scattered  among  the  rustling  shocks,  and  the  cheerily  whistled 
Lilt  of  an  old  plantation  tune  from  an  ebony  teamster, 
These  behold  no  more  than  the  regular  jog  of  a  mill-wheel 
Where,  unto  me,  there  is  possible  end  and  diviner  beginning. 
Silent  are  now  the  flute  of  Spring  and  the  clarion  of  Summer 
As  they  had  never  been  blown :  the  wail  of  a  dull  Miserere 
Heavily  sweeps  the  woods,  and,  stifled,  dies  in  the  valleys. 


Who  are  they  that  prate  of  the  sweet  consolation  of  Nature  ? 
They  who  fly  from  the  city's  heat  for  a  month  to  the  sea-shore, 
Drink  of  unsavory  springs,  or  camp  in  the  green  Adirondacks  ? 
They,  long  since,  have  left  with  their  samples  of  ferns  and  of  alga, 
Memories  carefully  dried  and  somewhat  lacking  in  color, 
Gossip  of  tree  and  cliff  and  wave  and  modest  adventure, 
Such  as  a  graceful  sentiment —  not  too  earnest  —  admits  of, 
Heard  in  the  pause  of  a  dance  or  bridging  the  gaps  of  a  dinner. 
Nay,  but  I,  who  know  her,  exult  in  her  profligate  seasons, 
Turn  from  the  silence  of  men  to  her  fancied,  fond  recognition, 
I  am  repelled  at  last  by  her  sad  and  cynical  humor. 
Kinder,  cheerier  now,  were  the  pavements  crowded  with  people, 
Walls  that  hide  the  sky,  and  the  endless  racket  of  business. 
There  a  hope  in  something  lifts  and  enlivens  the  current, 
Face  seeth  face,  and  the  hearts  of  a  million,  beating  together, 
Hidden  though  each  from  other,  at  least  are  outwardly  nearer, 
Lending  the  life  of  all  to  the  one, —  bestowing  and  taking, 
Weaving  a  common  web  of  strength  in  the  meshes  of  contact, 
Close,  yet  never  impeded,  restrained,  yet  delighting  in  freedom. 
There  the  soul,  secluded  in  self,  or  touching  its  fellow 
Only  with  horny  palms  that  hide  the  approach  of  the  pulses, 
Driven  abroad,  discovers  the  secret  signs  of  its  kindred, 
Kisses  on  lips  unknown,  and  words  on  the  tongue  of  the  stranger. 
Life  is  set  to  a  statelier  march,  a  grander  accordance 
Follows  its  multitudinous  steps  of  dance  and  of  battle  : 
Part  hath  each  in  the  music  ;  even  the  sacredest  whisper 
Findeth  a  soul  unafraid  and  an  ear  that  is  ready  to  listen. 


Nature  ?     'T  is  well  to  sing  of  the  glassy  Bandusian  fountain, 
Shining  Ortygian  beaches,  or  flocks  on  the  meadows  of  Enna, 
Linking  the  careless  life  with  the  careless  mood  of  the  Mother. 
We,  afar  and  alone,  confronted  with  heavier  questions, 
Robbed  of  the  oaten  pipe  before  it  is  warm  in  our  fingers. 
Why  should  we  feign  a  faith  ?  —  why  crown  an  indifferent  goddese  ? 
Under  the  gray,  monotonous  vault  what  carolling  song-bird 
Hopes  for  an  echo  ?     Closer  and  lower  the  vapors  are  folded  ; 
Sighing  shiver  the  woods,  though  drifted  leaves  are  unrustled  ; 
Ghosts  of  the  grasses  that  fled  with  a  breath  and  floated  in  sunshine 
Hang  unstirred  on  brier  and  fence ;  for  a  new  desolation 
Comes  with  the  rain,  that,  chilly  and  quietly  creeping  at  nightfall, 
Thence  for  many  a  day  shall  dismally  drizzle  and  darken. 


"  See  !  "  (methinks  I  hear  the  mechanical  routine  repeated,) 

"  Emblems  of  faith  in  the  folded  bud  and  the  seed  that  is  sleeping  ! 


156  HOME  PASTORALS. 

Knowledge,  not  Faith,  deduced  the  similitude  ;  how  shall  an  emblem 

Give  to  the  soul  the  steadfast  truth  that  alone  satisfies  it  ? 

Joy  of  the  Spring  I  can  feel,  but  not  the  preaching  of  Autumn. 

Earth,  if  a  lesson  is  wrought  upon  each  of  thy  radiant  pages, 

Give  us  the  words  that  sustain  us,  and  not  the  words  that  discourage ! 

Sceptic  art  thou  become,  the  breeder  of  doubt  and  confusion, 

Powerless -vassal  of  Fate,  assuming  a  meek  resignation, 

Yielding  the  forces  that  moved  in  thy  life  and  made  it  triumphant ! 


Now,  as  my  circle  of  home  is  slowly  swallowed  in  darkness, 

As  with  the  moan  of  winds  the  rain  is  drearily  falling,  — 

Hopes  that  drew  as  the  sun  and  aims  that  stood  as  the  pole-star 

Fading  aloof  from  my  life  as  though  it  never  had  known  them,  — 

Where,  when  the  wont  is  deranged,  shall  I  find  a  permanent  foothold  ? 

Stripped  of  the  rags  of  Time  I  see  the  form  of  my  being, 

Born  of  all  that  ever  has  been,  and  haughtily  reaching 

Forward  to  all  that  comes,  —  yet  certain,  this  moment,  of  nothing. 

Chide  or  condemn  as  ye  may,  the  truant  and  mutinous  spirit 

Turns  on  itself,  and  forces  release  from  its  holiest  habit ; 

Soars  where  the  suns  are  sprinkled  in  cold  illimited  darkness, 

Peoples  the  spheres  with  far  diviner  forms  of  existence, 

Questions,  conjectures  at  will ;  for  Earth  and  its  creeds  are  forgotten. 

Thousands  of  asons  it  gathers,  yet  scarce  its  feet  are  supported  ; 

Dumb  is  the  universe  unto  the  secrets  of  Whence  ?   and  of  Whither  ? 

So,  as  a  dove  through  the  summits  of  ether  falling  exhausted, 

Under  it  yawns  the  blank  of  an  infinite  Something  —  or  Nothing  ! 


Let  me  indulge  in  the  doubt,  for  this  is  the  token  of  freedom, 

This  is  all  that  is  safe  from  hands  that  would  fain  intermeddle, 

Thrusting  their  worn  phylacteries  over  the  eyes  that  are  seeking 

Truth  as  it  shines  in  the  sky,  not  truth  as  it  smokes  in  their  lantern. 

Ah,  shall  I  venture  alone  beyond  the  limits  they  set  us, 

Bearing  the  spark  within  till  a  breath  of  the  Deity  fan  it 

Into  an  upward-pointing  flame  ?  —  and,  forever  unquiet, 

Nearer  through  error  advance,  and  nearer  through  ignorant  yearning  ? 

Yes,  it  must  be :  the  soul  from  the  soul  cannot  hide  or  dimmish 

Aught  of  its  essence  :  here  the  duplicate  nature  is  ended  : 

Here  the  illusions  recede,  at  man's  unassailable  centre. 

And  the  nearness  and  farness  of  God  are  all  that  is  left  him. 


Lo !  as  I  muse,  there  come  on  the  lonely  darkness  and  silence 
Gleams  like  those  of  the  sun  that  reach  his  uttermost  planet, 
Inwardly  dawning ;  and  faint  and  sweet  as  the  voices  of  waters 
Borne  from  a  sleeping  mountain-vale  on  a  breeze  of  the  midnight, 
Falls  a  message  of  cheer  :  "  Be  calm,  for  to  doubt  is  to  seek  whom 
None  can  escape,  and  the  soul  is  dulled  with  an  idle  acceptance. 
Crying,  questioning,  stumbling  in  gloom,  thy  pathway  ascendeth  ; 
They  with  the  folded  hands  at  the  last  relapse  into  strangers. 
Over  thy  head,  behold  !  the  wing  with  its  measureless  shadow 
Spread  against  the  light,  is  the  wing  of  the  Angel  of  Uufaith, 
Chosen  of  God  to  shield  the  eyes  of  men  from  His  glory. 
Thus  through  mellower  twilights  of  doubt  thou  climbest  undazzled. 


L'ENVOI.  157 

Mornward  ever  directed,  and  even  in  wandering  guided. 

God  is  patient  of  souls  that  reach  through  an  endless  creation, 

So  but  His  shadow  be  seen,  but  heard  the  trail  of  His  mantle  !  " 


Who  is  alone  in  this  ?    The  elder  brothers,  immortal, 

Leaned  o'er  the  selfsame  void  and  rose  to  the  same  consolation, 

Human  therein  as  we,  however  diviner  their  message. 

Even  as  the  liquid  soul  of  summer,  pent  in  the  flagon, 

Waits  in  the  darksome  vault  till  we  crave  its  odor  and  sunshine, 

So  in  the  Past  the  words  of  life,  the  voices  eternal. 

Freedom  like  theirs  we  claim,  yet  lovingly  guard  in  the  freedom 

Sympathies  due  to  the  time  and  help  to  the  limited  effort; 

Thus  with  double  arms  embracing  our  duplicate  being, 

Setting  a  foot  in  either  world,  we  stand  as  the  Masters. 

Ah,  but  who  can  arise  so  far,  except  in  his  longing  ? 

Give  me  thy  hand  !  —  the  soft  and  quickening  life  of  thy  pulses 

Spans  the  slackened  spirit  and  lifts  the  eyelids  of  Fancy  : 

Doubt  is  of  loneliness  born,  belief  companions  the  lover. 

Ever  from  thee,  as  once  from  youth's  superfluous  forces, 

Courage  and  hope  are  renewed,  the  endless  future  created. 

Out  of  the  season's  hollosv  the  sunken  sun  shall  be  lifted, 

Bringing  faith  in  his  beams,  the  green  resurrection  of  Easter, 

After  the  robes  of  death  by  the  angels  of  air  have  been  scattered, 

Climbing  the  heights  of  heaven,  to  stand  supreme  at  his  solstice  1 


L'ENVOL 


MAT-TIME  and  August,  November,  and  over  the  winter  to  May-time, 

Year  after  year,  or  shaken  by  nearness  of  imminent  battle, 

Or  as  remote  from  the  stir  as  an  isle  of  the  sleepy  Pacific, 

Here,  at  least,  I  have  tasted  peace  in  the  .pauses  of  labor, 

Rest  as  of  sleep,  the  gradual  growth  of  deliberate  Nature. 

Here,  escaped  from  the  conflict  of  taste,  the  confusion  of  voices 

Heard  in  a  land  where  the  form  of  Art  abides  as  a  stranger, 

Come  to  me  definite  hopes  and  clearer  possible  duties, 

Faith  in  the  steadfast  service,  content  with  tardy  achievement. 

Here,  in  men,  I  have  found  the  elements  working  as  elsewhere, 

Ever  betraying  the  surge  and  swell  of  invisible  currents, 

Which,  from  beneath,  from  the  deepest  bases  of  thought  in  the  people, 

Press,  and  heavy  with  change,  and  filled  with  visions  unspoken, 

Bear  us  onward  to  shape  the  formless  face  of  the  Future. 


Now,  if  the  tree  I  planted  for  mine  must  shadow  another's, 

If  the  uncounted  tender  memories,  sown  with  the  seasons, 

Filling  the  webs  of  ivy,  the  grove,  the  terrace  of  roses, 

Clothing  the  lawn  with  unwithering  green,  the  orchard  with  blossoms, 

Singing  a  finer  song  to  the  exquisite  motion  of  waters, 

Breathing  profounder  calm  from  the  dark  Dodonian  oak-trees, 

Now  must  be  lost,  till,  haply,  the  hearts  of  others  renew  them,  — 

Yet  we  have  had  and  enjoyed,  we  have  and  enjoy  them  forever. 

Drops  from  the  bough  the  fruit  that  here  was  sunnily  ripened  : 


158  HOME  PASTORALS. 

Other  will  grow  as  well  on  the  westward  slope  of  the  garden. 
Sorrowing  not,  nor  driven  forth  by  the  sword  of  an  angel, 
Nay,  hut  home  by  a  fnller  tide  as  a  ship  from  the  harbor, 
Slowly  out  of  our  eyes  the  pastoral  bliss  of  the  landscape 
Fades,  and  is  dim,  and  sinks  below  the  rim  of  the  ocean. 


Sorrowing  not,  I  have  said  :  with  thee  was  the  ceasing  of  sorrow. 
Hope  from  thy  lips  I  have  drawn,  and  subtler  strength  from  thy  spirit, 
Sharer  of  dream  and  of  deed,  inflexible  conscience  of  Beauty  ! 
Though  as  a  Grace  thou  art  dear,  as  a  guardian  Muse  thou  art  earnest, 
Walking  with  purer  feet  the  paths  of  song  that  I  venture, 
Side  by  side,  unwearied,  in  cheerful,  encouraging  silence. 
Not  thy  constant  woman's  heart,  alone  I  have  wedded  ; 
One  are  we  made  in  patience  and  faith  and  high  aspiration. 
Thus,  at  last,  the  light  of  the  fortunate  age  is  recovered  : 
Thus,  wherever  we  wander,  the  shrine  and  the  oracle  follow  1 


BALLADS. 


BALLADS. 


THE  QUAKER  WIDOW. 


THEE  finds  me  in  the  garden,  Hannah,  —  come  in !    'T  is  kind  of  thee 
To  wait  until  the  Friends  were  gone,  who  came  to  comfort  me. 
The  still  and  quiet  company  a  peace  may  give,  indeed, 
But  blessed  is  the  single  heart  that  comes  to  us  at  need. 


Come,  sit  thee  down  !    Here  is  the  bench  where  Benjamin  would  sit 
On  First-day  afternoons  in  spring,  and  watck  the  swallows  flit : 
He  loved  to  smell  the  sprouting  box,  and  hear  the  pleasant  bees 
Go  humming  round  the  lilacs  and  through  the  apple-trees. 

in. 

I  think  he  loved  the  spring  :  not  that  he  cared  for  flowers  :  most  men 
Think  such  things  foolishness,  —  but  we  were  first  acquainted  then, 
One  spring  :  the  next  he  spoke  his  mind ;  the  third  I  was  his  wife, 
And  in  the  spring  (it  happened  so)  our  children  entered  life. 


He  was  but  seventy-five  :  I  did  not  think  to  lay  him  yet 
In  Kennett  graveyard,  where  at  Monthly  Meeting  first  we  met. 
The  Father's  mercy  shows  in  this  :  't  is  better  I  should  be 
Picked  out  to  bear  the  heavy  cross  —  alone  in  age  —  than  he. 


We  Ve  lived  together  fifty  years  :  it  seems  but  one  long  day, 
One  quiet  Sabbath  of  the  heart,  till  he  was  called  away ; 
And  as  we  bring  from  Meeting-time  a  sweet  contentment  home, 
So,  Hannah,  I  have  store  of  peace  for  all  the  days  to  come. 


I  mind  (for  I  can  tell  thee  now)  how  hard  it  was  to  know 
If  I  had  heard  the  spirit  right,  that  told  me  I  should  go  ; 
11 


162  BALLADS. 

For  father  had  a  deep  concern  upon  his  mind  that  day, 

But  mother  spoke  for  Benjamin,  —  she  knew  what  best  to  say. 


Then  she  was  still :  they  sat  awhile  :  at  last  she  spoke  again, 
:  The  Lord  incline  thee  to  the  right !  "  and  "  Thou  shalt  have  him,  Jane  !  " 
My  father  said.     I  cried.     Indeed,  't  was  not  the  least  of  shocks, 
For  Benjamin  was  Hicksite,  and  father  Orthodox. 


I  thought  of  this  ten  years  ago,  when  daughter  Ruth  we  lost  : 
Her  husband  's  of  the  world,  and  yet  I  could  not  see  her  crossed. 
She  wears,  thee  knows,  the  gayest  gowns,  she  hears  a  hireling  priest  — 
Ah,  dear  !  the  cross  was  ours :  her  life  's  a  happy  one,  at  least. 


Perhaps  she  '11  wear  a  plainer  dress  when  she 's  as  old  as  I,  — 
Would  thee  believe  it,  Hannah  1  once  /  felt  temptation  uigh  ! 
My  wedding-gown  was  ashen  silk,  too  simple  for  my  taste  : 
I  wanted  lace  around  the  neck,  and  a  ribbon  at  the  waist. 


How  strange  it  seemed  to  sit  with  him  upon  the  women's  side  ! 
I  did  not  dare  to  lift  my  eyes  :  I  felt  more  fear  than  pride, 
Till,  "  in  the  presence  of  the  Lord,"  he  said,  and  then  there  came 
A  holy  strength  upon  my  heart,  and  I  could  say  the  same. 


I  used  to  blush  when  he  came  near,  but  then  I  showed  -no  sign  ; 
With  all  the  meeting  looking  on,  I  held  his  hand  in  mine. 
It  seemed  my  bashfuluess  was  gone,  now  I  was  his  for  life  : 
Thee  knows  the  feeling,  Hannah,  —  thee,  too,  hast  been  a  wife. 


As  home  we  rode,  I  saw  no  fields  look  half  so  green  as  ours ; 
The  woods  were  coming  into  leaf,  the  meadows  full  of  flowers  ; 
The  neighbors  met  us  in  the  lane,  and  every  face  was  kind,  — 
'T  is  strange  how  lively  everything  comes  back  upon  my  mind. 


I  see,  as  plain  as  thee  sits  there,  the  wedding-dinner  spread  : 

At  our  own  table  we  were  guests,  with  father  at  the  head, 

And  Dinah  Passmore  helped  us  both,  —  't  was  she  stood  up  with  me, 

And  Abner  Jones  with  Benjamin,  —  and  now  they  're  gone,  all  three! 


It  is  not  right  to  wish  for  death  ;  the  Lord  disposes  best. 
His  Spirit  comes  to  quiet  hearts,  and  fits  them  for  His  rest ; 
And  that  He  halved  our  little  flock  was  merciful,  I  see  : 
For  Benjamin  has  two  in  heaven,  and  two  are  left  with  me. 


THE   HOLLY-TREE.  163 


Eusebius  never  cared  to  farm, —  't  wa^  not  his  call,  in  truth, 
And  I  must  rent  the  dear  old  place,  and  go  to  daughter  Kuth. 
Thee  '11  say  her  ways  are  not  like  mine,  —  young  people  now-a-days 
Have  fallen  sadly  off,  I  think,  from  all  the  good  old  ways. 


But  Ruth  is  still  a  Friend  at  heart ;  she  keeps  the  simple  tongue, 
The  cheerful,  kindly  nature  we  loved  when  she  was  young ; 
And  it  was  brought  upon  my  mind,  remembering  her,  of  late, 
That  we  on  dress  and  outward  things  perhaps  lay  too  much  weight. 


I  once  heard  Jesse  Kersey  say,  a  spirit  clothed  with  grace, 
And  pure,  almost,  as  angels  are,  may  have  a  homely  face. 
And  dress  may  be  of  less  account :  the  Lord  will  look  within  : 
The  soul  it  is  that  testifies  of  righteousness  or  sin. 


Thee  must  n't  be  too  hard  on  Ruth  :  she  's  anxious  I  should  go, 
And  she  will  do  her  duty  as  a  daughter  should,  I  know. 
'T  is  hard  to  change  so  late  in  life,  but  we  must  be  resigned  : 
The  Lord  looks  down  contentedly  upon  a  willing  mind. 


THE  HOLLY-TREE. 

i. 

THE  corn  was  warm  in  the  ground,  the  fences  were  mended  and  made 
And  the  garden-beds,  as  smooth  as  a  counterpane  is  laid, 
Were  dotted  and  striped  with  green  where  the  peas  and  radishes  grew 
With  elecampane  at  the  foot,  and  comfrey,  and  sage,  and  rue. 


The  work  was  done  on  the  farm,  't  was  orderly  everywhere, 
And  comfort  smiled  from  the  earth,  and  rest  was  felt  in  the  air. 
When  a  Saturday  afternoon  at  such  a  time  comes  round, 
The  farmer's  fancies  grow,  as  grows  the  grain  in  his  ground. 


"1  was  so  with  Gabriel  Parke  :  he  stood  by  the  holly-tree 
That  came,  in  the  time  of  Penn,  with  his  fathers  over  the  sea  : 
A  hundred  and  eighty  years  it  had  grown  where  it  first  was  set, 
And  the  thorny  leaves  were  thick  and  the  trunk  was  sturdy  yet. 


From  the  knoll  where  stood  the  house  the  fair  fields  pleasantly  rolled 
To  dells  where  the  laurels  hung,  and  meadows  of  butter-cup  gold  : 
He  looked  on  them  all  by  turns,  with  joy  in  his  acres  free, 
But  ever  his  thoughts  came  back  to  the  tale  of  the  holly-tree. 


164  BALLADS. 


In  beautiful  Warwickshire,  beside  the  Avon  stream, 
John  Parke,  in  his  English  home,  had  dreamed  a  singular  dream. 
He  went  with  a  sorrowful  heart,  for  love  of  a  bashful  maid, 
And  a  vision  came  as  he  slept  one  day  in  a  holly's  shade. 


An  angel  sat  in  the  boughs,  and  showed  him  a  goodly  land, 
With  hills  that  fell  to  a  brook,  and  forests  on  either  hand, 
And  said  :  "  Thou  shalt  wed  thy  love,  and  this  shall  belong  to  you; 
For  the  earth  has  ever  a  home  for  a  tender  heart  and  true  ! " 


Even  so  it  came  to  pass,  as  the  angel  promised  then : 
He  wedded  and  wandered  forth  with  the  earliest  friends  of  Penn, 
And  the  home  foreshown  he  found,  with  all  that  a  home  endears,  • 
A  nest  of  plenty  and  peace,  for  a  hundred  and  eighty  years  ! 


In  beautiful  Warwickshire  the  life  of  the  two  began,  — 
A  slip  of  the  tree  of  the  dream,  a  far-off  sire  of  the  man  ; 
And  it  seemed  to  Gabriel  Parke,  as  the  leaves  above  him  stirred, 
That  the  secret  dream  of  his  hearc  the  soul  of  the  holly  heard. 


Of  Patience  Phillips  he  thought :  she,  too,  was  a  bashful  maid  : 
The  blue  of  her  eyes  was  hid  by  the  eyelash's  golden  shade  ; 
But  well  that  she  could  not  hide  the  cheeks  that  were  fair  to  see 
As  the  pink  of  an  apple-bud,  ere  the  blossom  snows  the  tree  ! 


Ah  !  how  had  the  English  Parke  to  the  English  girl  betrayed, 
Save  a  dream  had  helped  his  heart,  the  love  that  makes  afraid  ?  — • 
That  seemed  to  smother  his  voice,  when  his  blood  so  sweetly  ran, 
And  the  baby  heart  lay  weak  in  the  rugged  breast  of  the  man  ? 


His  glance  came  back  from  the  hills  and  back  from  the  laurel  glen, 
And  fell  on  the  grass  at  his  feet,  where  clucked  a  rnother-hen, 
With  a  brood  of  tottering  chicks,  that  followed  as  best  they  might  j 
But  one  was  trodden  and  lame,  and  drooped  in  a  woful  plight. 


He  lifted  up  from  the  grass  the  feeble,  cluttering  thing, 
And  warmed  its  breast  at  his  lips,  and  smoothed  its  stumpy  wing, 
When,  lo !  at  his  side  a  voice  :  "  Is  it  hurt  ?  "  was  all  she  said  ; 
But  the  eyes  of  both  were  shy,  and  the  cheeks  of  both  were  red. 


THE   HOLLY-TREE.  165 


She  took  from  his  hand  the  chick,  and  fondled  and  soothed  it  then, 
While,  knowing  that  good  was  meant,  cheerfully  clucked  the  hen  ; 
And  the  tongues  of  the  two  were  loosed  :  there  seemed  a  wonderful  charm 
In  talk  of  the  hatching  fowls  and  spring-work  done  on  the  farm. 


But  Gabriel  saw  that  her  eyes  were  drawn  to  the  holly-tree : 
'  Have  you  heard,"  he  said,  "  how  it  came  with  the  family  over  t\4  s«a  ?  " 
He  told  the  story  again,  though  he  knew  she  knew  it  well, 
And  a  spark  of  hope,  as  he  spake,  like  fire  in  his  bosom  fell. 


"  I  dreamed  a  beautiful  dream,  here,  under  the  tree,  just  now," 
He  said ;  and  Patience  felt  the  warmth  of  his  eyes  on  her  brow  : 

"  I  dreamed,  like  the  English  Parke  ;  already  the  farm  I  own, 
But  the  rest  of  the  dream  is  best  —  the  land  is  little,  alone." 


He  paused,  and  looked  at  the  maid  :  her  flushing  cheek  was  bent, 
And,  under  her  chin,  the  chick  was  cheeping  its  warm  content  ; 
But  naught  she  answered  —  then  he  :  "0  Patience  !    I  thought  of  you ! 
Tell  me  you  take  the  dream,  and  help  me  to  make  it  true  ! " 


The  mother  looked  from '  the  house,  concealed  by  the  window-pane, 
And  she  felt  that  the  holly's  spell  had  fallen  upon  the  twain  ; 
She  guessed  from  Gabriel's  face  what  the  words  he  had  spoken  were, 
And  blushed  in  the  maiden's  stead,  as  if  they  were  spoken  to  her. 


She  blushed,  and  she  turned  away,  ere  the  trembling  man  and  maid 
Silently  hand  in  hand  had  kissed  in  the  holly's  shade, 
And  Patience  whispered  at  last,  her  sweet  eyes  dim  with  dew  : 
1  O  Gabriel !  could  you  dream  as  much  as  I  've  dreamed  of  you  ?  " 


The  mother  said  to  herself,  as  she  sat  in  her  straight  old  chair : 
"  He  's  got  the  pick  of  the  flock,  so  tidy  and  kind  and  fair  ! 
At  first  I  shall  find  it  hard,  to  sit  and  be  still,  and  see 
How  the  house  is  kept  to  rights  by  somebody  else  than  me. 


1  But  the  home  must  be  theirs  alone :  I  '11  do  by  her,  if  I  can, 
As  Gabriel's  grandmother  did,  when  I  as  a  wife  began  : 
So  good  and  faithful  he  's  been,  from  the  hour  when  I  gave  him  life, 
He  shall  master  be  in  the  house,  and  mistress  shall  be  his  wife  ! " 


L66  BALLADS. 


JOHN  REED. 

THERE  's  a  mist  ou  the  meadow  below ;  the  herring-frogs  chirp  and  cry ; 
It 's  chill  when  the  sun  is  down,  and  the  sod  is  not  yet  dry : 
The  world  is  a  lonely  place,  it  seems,  and  I  don't  know  why. 

I  see,  as  I  lean  on  the  fence,  how  wearily  trudges  Dan 

With  the  feel  of  the  spring  in  his  bones,  like  a  weak  and  elderly  man ; 

I  've  had  it  a  many  a  time,  but  we  must  work  when  we  can. 

But  day  after  day  to  toil,  and  ever  from  sun  to  sun, 
Though  up  to  the  season's  front  and  nothing  be  left  undone, 
Is  ending  at  twelve  like  a  clock,  and  beginning  again  at  one. 

The  frogs  make  a  sorrowful  noise,  and  yet  it 's  the  time  they  mate ; 
There 's  something  comes  with  the  spring,  a  lightness  or  else  a  weight ; 
There  's  something  comes  with  the  spring,  and  it  seems  to  me  it 's  fate. 

It 's  the  hankering  after  a  life  that  you  never  have  learned  to  know  ; 

It 's  the  discontent  with  a  life  that  is  always  thus  and  so  ; 

It 's  the  wondering  what  we  are,  and  where  we  are  going  to  go. 

My  life  is  lucky  enough,  I  fancy,  to  most  men's  eyes, 
For  the  more  a  family  grows,  the  oftcner  some  one  dies, 
And  it 's  now  run  on  so  long,  it  could  n't  be  otherwise. 

And  Sister  Jane  and  myself,  we  have  learned  to  claim  and  yield  ; 

She  rules  in  the  house  at  will,  and  I  in  the  barn  and  field, 

So,  nigh  upon  thirty  years !  —  as  if  written  and  signed  and  sealed. 

I  could  n't  change  if  I  would  ;  I  've  lost  the  how  and  the  when  ; 
One  day  my  time  will  be  up,  and  Jane  be  the  mistress  then, 
For  single  women  are  tough,  and  live  down  the  single  men. 

She  kept  me  so  to  herself,  she  was  always  the  stronger  hand, 

And  my  lot  showed  well  enough,  when  I  looked  around  in  the  land ; 

But  I  'm  tired  and  sore  at  heart,  and  I  don't  quite  understand. 

I  wonder  how  it  had  been  if  I  'd  taken  what  others  need, 
The  plague,  they  say,  of  a  wife,  the  care  of  a  younger  breed  1 
If  Edith  Pleasauton  now  were  with  me  as  Edith  Reed  ? 

Suppose  that  a  son  well  grown  were  there  in  the  place  of  Dan, 
And  I  felt  myself  in  him,  as  I  was  when  my  work  began  ? 
I  should  feel  no  older,  sure,  and  certainly  more  a  man  ! 

A  daughter,  besides,  in  the  house ;  nay,  let  there  be  two  or  three  ! 

We  never  can  overdo  the  luck  that  can  never  be, 

And  what  has  come  to  the  most  might  also  have  come  to  me. 

I've  thought,  when  a  neighbor's  wife  or  his  child  was  carried  away, 
That  to  have  no  loss  was  a  gain  ;  but  now,  —  I  can  hardly  say ; 
He  seems  to  possess  them  still,  under  the  ridges  of  clay. 

And  share  and  share  in  a  life  is,  somehow,  a  different  thing 
From  property  held  by  deed,  and  the  riches  that  oft  take  wing ; 
I  feel  so  close  in  the  breast !  —  I  think  it  must  be  the  spring. 


JANE   REED.  167 

I  'm  drying  up  like  a  brook  when  the  woods  have  been  cleared  around  ; 
You  're  sure  it  must  always  run,  you  are  used  to  the  sight  and  sound, 
But  it  shrinks  till  there  's  only  left  a  stony  rut  in  the  ground. 

There  's  nothing  to  do  but  take  the  days  as  they  come  and  go, 
And  not  to  worry  with  thoughts  that  nobody  likes  to  show, 
Foi  t>eople  so  seldom  talk  of  the  things  they  want  to  know. 

There  's  times  when  the  way  is  plain,  and  everything  nearly  right, 
And  then,  of  a  sudden,  you  stand  like  a  man  with  a  clouded  sight : 
A  bush  seems  often  a  beast,  in  the  dusk  of  the  falling  night. 

]  must  move ;  my  joints  are  stiff;  the  weather  is  breeding  rain, 
And  Dan  is  hurrying  on  with  his  plough-team  up  the  lane. 
I  '11  go  to  the  village-store ;  I  'd  rather  not  talk  with  Jane. 

JANE  REED. 

"  IF  I  could  forget,"  she  said,  "  forget,  and  begin  again  ! 
We  see  so  dull  at  the  time,  and,  looking  back,  so  plain  : 
There 's  a  quiet  that 's  worse,  I  think,  than  many  a  spoken  strife, 
And  it 's  wrong  that  one  mistake  should  change  the  whole  of  a  life. 

"  There 's  John,  forever  the  same,  so  steady,  sober,  and  mild  ; 
He  never  storms  as  a  man  who  never  cried  as  a  child  : 
Perhaps  my  ways  are  harsh,  but  if  he  would  seem  to  care, 
There  'd  be  fewer  swallowed  words  and  a  lighter  load  to  bear. 

"  Here,  Cherry !  —  she  's  found  me  out,  the  calf  I  raised  in  the  spring, 
And  a  likely  heifer  she  's  grown,  the  foolish,  soft-eyed  thing  ! 
Just  the  even  color  I  like,  without  a  dapple  or  speck,  — 
O  Cherry,  bend  down  your  head,  and  let  me  cry  on  your  neck  ! 

"  The  poor  dumb  beast  she  is,  she  never  can  know  nor  tell, 
And  it  seems  to  do  me  good,  the  very  shame  of  the  spell : 
So  old  a  woman  and  hard,  and  Joel  so  old  a  man.  — 
But  the  thoughts  of  the  old  go  on  as  the  thoughts  of  the  young  began  ! 

"  It 's  guessing  that  wastes  the  heart,  far  worse  than  the  surest  fate : 
If  I  knew  he  had  thought  of  me,  I  could  quietly  work  and  wait ; 
And  then  when  either,  at  last,  on  a  bed  of  death  should  lie, 
Why,  one  might  speak  the  truth,  and  the  other  hear  and  die  !  '' 

She  leaned  on  the  heifer's  neck ;  the  dry  leaves  fell  from  the  boughs, 
And  over  the  sweet  late  grass  of  the  meadow  strayed  the  cows : 
The  golden  dodder  meshed  the  cardinal-flower  by  the  rill ; 
There  was  autumn  haze  in  the  air,  and  sunlight  low  on  the  hill. 

"  I  've  somehow  missed  my  time,"  she  said  to  herself  and  sighed  : 
"  What  girls  are  free  to  hope,  a  steady  woman  must  hide, 
But  the  need  outstays  the  chance  :  it  makes  me  cry  and  laugh, 
To  think  that  the  only  thing  I  can  talk  to  now  is  a  calf !  " 

A  step  Dame  down  from  the  hill :  she  did  not  turn  or  rise ; 
There  was  something  in  her  heart  that  saw  without  the  eyes. 
She  heard  the  foot  delay,  as  doubting  to  stay  or  go  : 
"  Is  the  heifer  for  sale  ? "  he  said.     She  sternly  answered,  "  No  !  " 


168  BALLADS. 

She  lifted  her  head  as  she  spoke  :  their  eyes  a  moment  met, 
And  her  heart  repeated  the  words,  "  If  1  could  only  forget !  " 
He  turned  a  little  away,  but  her  lowered  eyes  could  see 
His  hand,  as  it  picked  the  bark  from  the  trunk  of  a  hickory-tree. 

"  Why  can't  we  be  friendly,  Jane  ?  "  his  words  came,  strange  and  slow ; 

"  You  seem  to  bear  me  a  grudge,  so  long,  and  so  long  ago  ! 
You  were  gay  and  free  with  the  rest,  but  always  so  shy  of  me, 
That,  before  my  freedom  came,  I  saw  that  it  could  n't  be." 

"  Joel !  "  was  all  she  cried,  as  their  glances  met  again, 
And  a  sudden  rose  effaced  her  pallor  of  age  and  pain. 
He  picked  at  the  hickory  bark  :  "  It 's  a  curious  thing  to  say ; 
But  I  'm  lonely  siiiee  Phoebe  died  and  the  girls  are  married  away. 

"  That 's  why  these  thoughts  come  back  :  I  'm  a  little  too  old  for  pride, 
And  I  never  could  understand  how  love  should  be  all  one  side : 
'T  would  answer  itself,  I  thought,  and  time  would  show  me  how ; 
But  it  did  n't  come  so,  then,  and  it  does  n't  seem  so,  now  !  " 

"  Joel,  it  came  so,  then  ! "  —  and  her  voice  was  thick  with  tears : 
"  A  hope  for  a  single  day,  and  a  bitter  shame  for  years  !  " 

He  snapped  the  ribbon  of  bark  ;  he  turned  from  the  hickory-tree : 
"  Jane,  look  me  once  in  the  face,  and  say  that  you  thought  of  me  !  " 

She  looked,  and  feebly  laughed  :  "  It 's  a  comfort  to  know  the  truth, 
Though  the  chance  was  thrown  away  in  the  blind  mistake  of  youth." 
"  And  a  greater  comfort,  Jane,"  he  said,  with  a  tender  smile, 
"  To  find  the  chance  you  have  lost,  and  keep  it  a  little  while." 

She  rose  as  he  spake  the  words  :  the  petted  heifer  thrust 
Her  muzzle  between  the  twain,  with  an  animal's  strange  mistrust : 
But  over  the  creature's  neck  he  drew  her  to  his  breast : 
"  A  horse  is  never  so  old  but  it  pulls  with  another  best !  " 

"  It 's  enough  to  know,"  she  said ;  "  to  remember,  not  forget !  " 
"  Nay,  nay  :  for  the  rest  of  life  we  '11  pay  each  other's  debt  1  " 
She  had  no  will  to  resist,  so  kindly  was  she  drawn, 
And  she  sadly  said,  at  last,  "  But  what  will  become  of  John  ?  " 


THE  OLD  PENNSYLVANIA  FAEMER. 


WELL  —  well !  this  is  a  comfort,  now  —  the  air  is  mild  as  May, 
And  yet 't  is  March  the  twentieth,  or  twenty-first,  to-day  : 
And  Reuben  ploughs  the  hill  for  corn  ;  I  thought  it  would  be  tough, 
But  now  I  see  the  furrows  turned,  I  guess  it 's  dry  enough. 


L  don't  half  live,  penned  up  in  doors  ;  a  stove  's  not  like  the  sun. 
When  I  can't  see  how  things  go  on,  I  fear  they  're  badly  done  : 
I  might  have  farmed  till  now,  I  think  —  one  's  family  is  so  queer  — 
As  if  a  man  can't  oversee  who  's  in  his  eightieth  year  ! 


THE  OLD  PENNSYLVANIA  FARMER.  169 


Father,  I  mind,  was  eighty-five  before  he  gave  up  his  ; 
But  he  was  dim  o'  sight,  and  crippled  with  the  rhcumatiz. 
I  followed  in  the  old,  steady  way,  so  he  was  satisfied ; 
But  Keuben  likes  new-fangled  things  and  ways  I  can't  abide. 


I  'm  glad  I  built  this  southern  porch  ;  my  chair  seems  easier  here  : 
I  have  n't  seen  as  fine  a  spring  this  five-and-twenty  year  ! 
And  how  the  time  goes  round  so  quick !  —  a  week,"  I  would  have  sworn, 
Since  they  were  husking  on  the  flat,  and  now  they  plough  for  corn ! 

v. 

When  I  was  young,  time  had  for  me  a  lazy  ox's  pace, 

But  now  it 's  like  a  blooded  horse,  that  means  to  win  the  race. 

And  yet  I  can't  fill  out  my  days,  I  tire  myself  with  naught ; 

I  'd  rather  use  my  legs  and  hands  than  plague  my  head  with  thought. 


There  's  Marshall,  too,  I  see  from  here :  he  and  his  boys  begin. 

Why  don't  they  take  the  lower  field  ?  that  one  is  poor  and  thin. 

A  coat  of  lime  it  ought  to  have,  but  they  're  a  doless  set : 

They  think  swamp-mud  's  as  good,  but  we  shall  see  what  corn  they  get ! 


Across  the  level,  Brown's  new  place  begins  to  make  a  show ; 
I  thought  he  'd  have  to  wait  for  trees,  but,  bless  me,  how  they  grow ! 
They  say  it  's  fine  —  two  acres  filled  with  evergreens  and  things ; 
But  so  much  land !  it  worries  me,  for  not  a  cent  it  brings. 


He  has  the  right,  I  don't  deny,  to  please  himself  that  way, 
But 't  is  a  bad  example  set,  and  leads  young  folks  astray : 
Book-learning  gets  the  upper-hand  and  work  is  slow  and  slack, 
And  they  that  come  long  after  us  will  find  things  gone  to  wrack. 


Now  Reuben  's  on  the  hither  side,  his  team  comes  back  again  ; 
I  know  how  deep  he  sets  the  share,  I  see  the  horses  strain  : 
I  had  that  field  so  clean  of  stones,  but  he  must  plough  so  deep, 
He  '11  have  it  like  a  turnpike  soon,  and  scarcely  fit  for  sheep. 


If  father  lived,  I  'd  like  to  know  what  he  would  say  to  these 

New  notions  of  the  younger  men,  who  farm  by  chemistries  : 

There  's  different  stock  and  other  grass ;  there  's  patent  plough  and  cart 

Five  hundred  dollars  for  a  bull !  it  would  have  broke  his  heart. 


170  BALLADS. 


The  maples  must  be  putting  out :  I  see  a  something  red 
Down  yonder  where  the  clearing  laps  across  the  meadow's  head. 
Swamp-cabbage  grows  beside  the  run ;  the  green  is  good  to  see, 
But  Avheat  's  the  color,  after  all,  that  cheers  and  'livens  me. 


They  think  I  have  an  easy  time,  no  need  to  worry  now  — 

Sit  in  the  porch  all  day  and.  watch  them  mow,  and  sow,  and  plough : 

Sleep  in  the  summer  in  the  shade,  in  winter  in  the  sun  — 

I  'd  rather  do  the  thing  myself,  and  know  just  how  it 's  done  ! 


Well  —  I  suppose  I  'm  old,  and  yet  't  is  not  so  long  ago 
When  Reuben  spread  the  swath  to  dry,  and  Jesse  learned  to  mow, 
And  William  raked,  and  Israel  hoed,  and  Joseph  pitched  with  me  : 
But  such  a  man  as  I  was  then  my  boys  will  never  be  ! 


I  don't  mind  William's  hankering  for  lectures  and  for  books  ; 
He  never  had  a  farming  knack  —  you  'd  see  it  in  his  looks  ; 
But  handsome  is  that  handsome  does,  and  he  is  well  to  do  : 
'T  would  ease  my  mind  if  I  could  say  the  same  of  Jesse,  too. 


There 's  one  black  sheep  in  every  flock,  so  there  must  be  in  mine, 
But  I  was  wrong  that  second  time  his  bond  to  undersign  : 
It 's  less  than  what  his  share  will  be  —  but  there  's  the  interest ! 
lu  ten  years  more  I  might  have  had  two  thousand  to  invest. 


There 's  no  use  thinking  of  it  now,  and  yet  it  makes  me  sore  ; 
The  way  I  've  slaved  and  saved,  I  ought  to  count  a  little  more. 
I  never  lost  a  foot  of  land,  and  that 's  a  comfort,  sure, 
And  if  they  do  not  call  me  rich,  they  cannot  call  me  poor. 


Well,  well !  ten  thcasand  times  I  've  thought  the  things  I'm  thinking  now ; 
I  've  thought  them  in  the  harvest-field  and  in  the  clover-mow  ; 
And  often  I  get  tired  of  them,  and  wish  I  'd  something  new  — 
But  this  is  all  I  've  had  and  known  ;  so  what 's  a  man  to  do  ? 


'T  is  like  my  time  is  nearly  out,  of  that  I  'm  not  afraid  ; 

I  never  cheated  any  man,  and  all  my  debts  are  paid. 

They  call  it  rest  that  we  shall  have,  but  work  would  do  no  harm  ; 

There  can't  be  liters  there  and  fields,  without  some  sort  o'  farm! 


NAPOLEON   AT   GOTHA.  171 


NAPOLEON  AT  GOTHA. 


i. 


WE  walk  amid  the  currents  of  actions  left  undone, 
The  germs  of  deeds  that  wither,  before  they  see  the  sun. 
For  every  sentence  uttered,  a  million  more  are  dumb : 
Men's  lives  are  chains  of  chances,  and  History  their  sum. 


Not  he,  the  Syracusan,  but  each  impurplcd  lord 
Must  eat  his  banquet  under  the  hair-suspended  sword  ; 
And  one  swift  breath  of  silence  may  fix  or  change  the  fate 
Of  him  whose  force  is  building  the  fabric  of  a  state. 


Where  o'er  the  windy  uplands  the  slated  turrets  shine, 
Duke  August  ruled  at  Gotha,  in  Castle  Friedenstein, — 
A  handsome  prince  and  courtly,  of  light  and  shallow  heart, 
No  better  than  he  should  be,  but  with  a  taste  for  Art. 


The  fight  was  fought  at  Jena,  eclipsed  was  Prussia's  sun, 
And  by  the  French  invaders  the  land  was  overrun  ; 
But  while  the  German  people  were  silent  in  despair, 
Duke  August  painted  pictures,  and  curled  his  yellow  hair. 


Now,  when  at  Erfurt  gathered  the  ruling  royal  clan, 
Themselves  the  humble  subjects,  their  lord  the  Corsican, 
Each  bade  to  ball  and  banquet  the  sparer  of  his  line  : 
Duke  August  with  the  others,  to  Castle  Friedenstein. 


Then  were  the  larders  rummaged,  the  forest-stags  were  slain, 
The  tuns  of  oldest  vintage  showered  out  their  golden  rain; 
The  towers  were  bright  with  banners,  —  but  all  the  people  said : 
1  We,  slaves,  must  feed  our  master,  —  would  God  that  he  were  dead  !  ** 


They  drilled  the  ducal  guardsmen,  men  yonng  and  straight  and  tall, 
To  form  a  double  column,  from  gate  to  castle-wall ; 
And  as  there  were  but  fifty,  the  first  must  wheel  away, 
Fall  in  beyond  the  others,  and  lengthen  the  array. 


"  Parbleu!  "  Napoleon  muttered:  "  Your  Highness'  guards  I  prize, 
So  young  and  strong  and  handsome,  and  all  of  equal  size  !  " 

"  You,  Sire,"  replied  Duke  August,  "  may  have  as  fine,  if  you 
Will  twice  or  thrice  repeat  them,  as  I  am  forced  to  do  ! " 


172  BALLADS. 


Now,  in  the  Castle  household,  of  all  the  folk,  was  one 
Whose  heart  was  hot  within  him,  the  Ducal  Huntsman's  son  ; 
A  proud  and  bright-eyed  stripling  ;  scarce  fifteen  years  he  had, 
But  free  of  hall  and  chamber :  Duke  August  loved  the  lad. 


He  saw  the  forceful  homage  ;  he  heard  the  shouts  that  came 
From  base  throats,  or  unwilling,  but  equally  of  shame  : 
He  thought :  "  One  man  has  done  it,  —  one  life  would  free  the  land, 
But  all  are  slaves  and  cowards,  and  none  will  lift  a  hand ! 


My  grandsire  hugged  a  bear  to  death,  when  broke  his  hunting-spear, 
And  has  this  little  Frenchman  a  muzzle  I  should  fear  ? 
If  kings  are  cowed,  and  princes,  and  all  the  land  is  scared, 
Perhaps  a  boy  can  show  them  the  thing  they  might  have  dared  ! " 


Napoleon  on  the  morrow  was  coming  once  again, 
(And  all  the  castle  knew  it)  without  his  courtly  train  ; 
And,  when  the  stairs  were  mounted,  there  was  no  other  road 
But  one  long,  lonely  passage,  to  where  the  Duke  abode. 


None  guessed  the  secret  purpose  the  silent  stripling  kept : 
Deep  in  the  night  he  waited,  and,  when  his  father  slept, 
Took  from  the  rack  of  weapons  a  musket  old  and  tried, 
And  cleaned  the  lock  and  barrel,  and  laid  it  at  his  side. 


He  held  it  fast  in  slumber,  he  lifted  it  in  dreams 
Of  sunlit  mountain-forests  and  stainless  mountain-streams; 
And  in  the  morn  he  loaded  —  the  load  was  bullets  three  : 
1  For  Deutschland  —  for  Duke  August  —  and  now  the  third  for  me  '  " 


"What !  ever  wilt  be  hunting  ?  "  the  stately  Marshal  cried ; 

"I  '11  fetch  a  stag  of  twenty  !  "  the  pale-faced  boy  replied, 
As,  clad  in  forest  color,  he  sauntered  through  the  court, 
And  said,  when  none  could  hear  him  :  "  Now,  may  the  time  be  short ! 


The  corridor  was  vacant,  the  windows  full  of  sun  ; 

He  stole  within  the  midmost,  and  primed  afresh  his  gun ; 

Then  stood,  with  all  his  senses  alert  in  ear  and  eye 

To  catch  the  lightest  signal  that  showed  the  Emperor  nigh. 


THE   ACCOLADE. 


178 


A  sound  of  wheels:  a  silence  :  the  muffled  sudden  jar 
Of  guards  their  arms  presenting  :  a  footstep  mounting  far, 
Then  nearer,  briskly  nearer,  —  a  footstep,  and  alone  I 
And  at  the  farther  portal  appeared  Napoleon  ! 


XVIII. 


Alone,  his  hands  behind  him,  his  firm  and  massive  head 
With  brooded  plans  uplifted,  he  came  with  measured  tread : 
And  yet,  those  feet  had  shaken  the  nations  from  their  poise, 
And  yet,  that  will  to  shake  them  depended  on  the  boy's  ! 


With  finger  on  the  trigger,  the  gun  held  hunter-wise, 
His  rapid  heart-beats  sending  the  blood  to  brain  and  eyes, 
The  boy  stood,  firm  and  deadly,  —  another  moment's  space, 
And  then  the  Emperor  saw  him,  and  halted,  face  to  face. 


A  mouth  as  cut  in  marble,  an  eye  that  pierced  and  stung 
As  might  a  god's,  all-seeing,  the  soul  of  one  so  young : 
A  look  that  read  his  secret,  that  lamed  his  callow  will, 
That  inly  smiled,  and  dared  him  his  purpose  to  fulfil ! 


As  one  a  serpent  trances,  the  boy,  forgetting  all, 

Felt  but  that  face,  nor  noted  the  harmless  musket's  fall ; 

Nor  breathed,  nor  thought,  nor  trembled  ;  but,  pale  and  cold  as  stone, 

Saw  pass,  nor  look  behind  him,  the  calm  Napoleon. 


And  these  two  kept  their  secret ;  but  from  that  day  began 
The  sense  of  fate  and  duty  that  made  the  boy  a  man  ; 
And  long  he  lived  to  tell  it,  —  and,  better,  lived  to  say  : 
'  God's  purposes  were  grander  :  He  thrust  me  from  His  way !  " 


THE  ACCOLADE. 

i. 

UNDER  the  lamp  in  the  tavern  yard 

The  beggars  and  thieves  were  met ; 
Ruins  of  lives  that  were  evil-starred, 
Battered  bodies  and  faces  hard, 
A  loveless  and  lawless  set. 


The  cans  were  full,  if  the   scrip  was 

lean ; 
A  fiddler  played  to  the  crowd 


The  high-pitched  lilt  of  a  tune  obscene, 
When  there  entered  the  gate,  in  gar 
ments  mean, 
A  stranger  tall  and  proud. 


There  was   danger  in   their  doubting 

eyes; 

"  Now  who  are  you  ?  "  they  said. 
"  One  who  has   been  more  wild   than 

wise, 
Who  has  played  with  force  and  fed  on, 

lies, 
As  you  on  your  mouldy  bread. 


174 


BALLADS. 


"  The  false  have  come  to  me,  high  and 

low, 

Where  I  only  sought  the  true  : 
I  am    sick  of    sham   and    sated  with 

show ; 

The  honest  evil  I  fain  would  know, 
Jn  the  license  here  with  you." 


"  He  shall  go  !  "   "  He  shall  stay !  "    In 

hot  debate 

Their  whims  and  humors  ran, 
When  Jack  o'  the  Strong  Arm  square 

and  straight 
Stood  up,  like  a  man  whose  word  is 

fate, 
A  reckless  and  resolute  man. 


"  Why  brawl,"  said  he,  "  at  so  slight  a 

thing  ? 

Are  fifty  afraid  of  one  ? 
We   have  taken  a  stranger  into   our 

ring 
Ere  this,  and  made  him  in  sport  our 

king  ; 
So  let  it  to-night  be  done ! 


"  Fetch  him  a  crown  of  tinsel  bright, 

For  sc«ptre  a  tough  oak-staff ; 
And  who  most  serves  to  the  King's  de 
light, 
The  King  shall  dub  him  his  own  true 

knight, 
And  I  swear  the  King  shall  laugh  ! " 


They  brought  him  a  monstrous  tinsel 

crown, 

They  put  the  staff  in  his  hand ; 
There  was  wrestling  and  racing  up  and 

down, 
There  was  song  of  singer  and  jest  of 

clown, 

There  was  strength  and  sleight-of- 
hand. 


The  King,  he  pledged  them  with  clink 

of  can, 
He  laughed  with  a  royal  glee ; 


There  was  dull  mistrust  when  the  sports 

began, 
There  was  roaring  mirth  when  the  rear- 

most  man 
Gave  out,  and  the  ring  was  free. 


For  Jack  o'  the  Strong  Arm  strove  with 

a  will, 
With  the  wit  and  the  strength  of 

four ; 
There  was  never  a  part  he  dared  not 

fill, 

Wrestler,  and  singer,  and  clown,  until 
The  motley  struggle  was  o'er. 


And  ever  he  turned  from  the  deft  sur 
prise, 

And  ever  from  strain  or  thrust, 
With  a  dumb  appeal   in   his  laughing 

guise, 
And  gazed    on  the  King  with  wistful 

eyes, 
Panting,  and  rough  with  dust. 


"  Kneel,  Jack  o'  the  Strong  Arm !   Our 

delight 

Hath  most  been  due  to  thee," 
Said  the  King,  and  stretched  his  rapier 

bright  : 
"  Rise,   Sir  John  Armstrong,  our  true 

knight, 
Bold,  fortunate,  and  free  !  " 


XIII. 

Jack   o'   the    Strong   Arm    knelt    and 

bowed, 

To  meet  the  christening  blade  ; 
He  heard   the    shouts   of   the   carelen 

crowd, 
And  munnnrcd  something,  as  though  be 

vowed, 
When  he  felt  the  accolade. 


He  kissed  the  King's  hand  tenderly, 

Full  slowly  then  did  rise, 
And  within  him  a  passion  seemed  to  be, 
For  his  choking  throat  they  all  could 
see, 

And  the  strange  tears  in  his  eyea. 


ERIC   AND   AXEL. 


175 


Prom  his  massive  breast  the  rags  he 

threw, 

He  threw  them  from  body  and  limb, 
Till,  bare  as  a  new-born  babe  to  view, 
He  faced  them,  no  longer  the  man  they 

knew : 
They  silently  stared  at  him. 


"  O  King ! "  he  said,  "  thou  wert  King, 

I  knew  ; 

I  am  verily  knight,  0  King  ! 
What  thou   hast  done  thou  canst  not 

undo  ; 
Thou  hast  come  to  the  false  and  found 

the  true 
In  the  carelessly  ventured  thing. 


"As  I  cast  away  these  rags  I  have  worn, 

The  life  that  was  in  them  I  cast ; 
Take  me,  naked  and  newly  born, 
Test   me  with    power  and  pride    and 

scorn, 
I  shall  be  true  to  the  last !  " 


His  large,  clear  eyes  were  weak  as  he 

spoke, 

But  his  mouth  was  firm  and  strong; 
And  a  cry  from  the  thieves  and  beggars 

broke, 

As  the  King  took  off  his  own  wide  cloak 
And  covered  him  from  the  throng. 


He  gave  him  his  royal  hand  in  their 

sight, 

And  he  said,  before  the  ring : 
*  Come  with  me,   Sir  John  !     Be  leal 

and  right ; 

If  I  have  made  thee  all  of  a  knight, 
Thou    hast   made   me   more   of   a 
king ! " 

ERIC  AND  AXEL. 


THOUGH  they  never  divided  my  meat  or 

wine, 
fet  Eric  and  Axel  are  friends  of  mine ; 


Never  shared  my  sorrow,  nor  laughed 

with  my  glee, 

Yet  Eric  and  Axel  are  dear  to  me ; 
And  faithfuller  comrades  no  man  ever 

knew 
Than  Eric  and  Axel,  the  fearless,  the 

true  ! 


When  I  hit  the  target,  they  feel  no  pride ; 
When  I  spin  with   the  waltzers,  they 

wait  outside ; 
When  the  holly  of  Yule-tide  hangs  in 

the  hall, 
And  kisses  are  freest,  they  care  not  at 

all; 
When  I  sing,  they  are  silent ;  I  speak, 

they  obey, 
Eric  and  Axel,  my  hope  and  my  stay ! 


They  wait  for  my  coming ;  they  know 

I  shall  come, 
When  the  dancers  are  faint  and  the  fid 

dlers  numb, 
With   a  shout  of    "  Ho,   Eric  !  "    and 

"  Axel,  ho  !  " 
As  we  skim  the  wastes  of  the  Norrland 

snow, 
And   their  frozen   breath  to  a  silvery 

gray 
Turns  Eric's  raven  and  Axel's  bay. 


By  the  bondehus  and  the  herregoari, 

O'er  the  glassy  pavement  of  frith  and 
fiord, 

Through  the  tall  fir-woods,  that  like 
steel  are  drawn 

On  the  broadening  red  of  the  rising 
dawn, 

Till  one  low  roof,  where  the  hills  un 
fold, 

Shelters  us  all  from  the  angry  cold. 


I  tell  them  the  secret  none  else  shall 

hear; 

I  love  her,  Eric,  I  love  my  dear ! 
I  love  her,  Axel ;  wilt  love  her,  too, 
Though  her  eyes  are  dark  and  mine  are 

blue? 
She  has  eyes  like  yours,  so  dark  and 

clear : 
Eric  and  Axel  will  love  my  dear  ! 


176 


BALLADS. 


They  would  speak  if  they  could ;  but  I 

think  they  know 
Where,  when  the  moon  is  thin,  they 

shall  go, 

To  wait  awhile  in  the  sleeping  street, 
To  hasten  away  upon  snow-shod  feet,  — 
Away  and  away,  ere  the  morning  star 
Touches  the  tops  of  the  spires  of  Cal- 

niar ! 


Per,  the  merchant,  may  lay  at  her  feet 
His  Malaga  wine  and  his  raisins  sweet, 
Brought  in  his  ships  from  Portugal  land, 
And  I  am  as  bare  as  the  palm  of  my 
hand; 


But  she  sighs  for  me,  and  she  sighs  for 

you, 
Eric  and  Axel,  my  comrades  true  ! 


You  care  not,  Eric,  for  gold  and  wine  ; 
You    care    not,   Axel,    for    show   and 

shine ; 
But  you  care  for  the  touch  of  the  hand 

that 's  dear, 
And  the  voice  that  fondles  you  through 

the  ear,  - 
And  you  shall  save  us,  through  storm 

and  snow, 
When    she    calls:    "Ho,  Eric!"    and 

"Axel,  ho!" 


LYRICS. 


LYEIOS. 


THE  BURDEN  OF  THE   DAY. 


WHO  shall  rise  and  cast  away, 
First,  the  Burden  of  the  Day  ? 
Who  assert  his  place,  and  teach 
Lighter  labor,  nobler  speech, 
Standing  firm,  erect,  and  strong, 
Proud  as  Freedom,  free  as  Song  ? 


Lo  !  we  groan  beneath  the  weight 
Our  own  weaknesses  create  ; 
Crook  the  knee  and  shut  the  lip, 
All  for  tamer  fellowship  ; 
Load  our  slack,  compliant  clay    • 
With  the  Burden  of  the  Day  ! 


Higher  paths  there  are  to  tread  ; 
Fresher  fields  around  us  spread  ; 
Other  flames  of  sun  and  star 
Flash  at  hand  and  lure  afar  ; 
Larger  manhood  might  we  share, 
Surer  fortune,  —  did  we  dare  1 


In  our  mills  of  common  thought 
By  the  pattern  all  is  wrought : 
In  our  school  of  life,  the  man 
Drills  to  suit  the  public  plan, 
And  through  labor,  love,  and  play, 
Shifts  the  Burden  of  the  Day. 


Ah,  the  gods  of  wood  and  stone 
Can  a  single  saint  dethrone, 


But  the  people  who  shall  aid 
'Gainst  the  puppets  they  have  made  I 
First  they  teach  and  then  obey  : 
'T  is  the  Burden  of  the  Day. 


Thunder  shall  we  never  hear 
In  this  ordered  atmosphere  ? 
Never  this  monotony  feel 
Shattered  by  a  trumpet's  peal? 
Never  airs  that  burst  and  blow 
From  eternal  summits,  know  7 


Though  no  man  resent  his  wrong, 
Still  is  free  the  poet's  song  : 
Still,  a  stag,  his  thought  may  leap 
O'er  the  herded  swine  and  sheep, 
And  in  pastures  far  away 
Lose  the  Burden  of  the  Day ! 


IN  THE  LISTS. 

COULD  I  choose  the  age  and  fortunate 

season 

When  to  be  born, 
I  would  fly  from  the  censure  of  your 

barren  reason, 

And  the  scourges  of  your  scorn  : 
Could  I  take  the  tongue,  and  the  land, 

and  the  station 
That  to  me  were  fit, 
I  would  make  my  life  a  force  and  an 

exultation, 
And  you  could  not  stifle  it ! 

But  the  thing  most  near  to  the  freedom 

I  covet 
Is  the  freedom  I  wrest 


180 


LYRICS. 


From  a  time  that  would  bar  me  from 

climbing  above  it, 
To  seek  the  East  in  the  West. 
I  have  dreamed  of  the  forms  of  a  nobler 

existence 

Than  you  give  me  here, 
And  the   beauty  that  lies  afar  in  the 

dateless  distance 

I  would   conquer,  and  bring  more 
near. 

It  is  good,  undowered  with  the  bounty 

of  Fortune, 
In  the  sun  to  stand  : 
Let  others  excuse,  and  cringe,  and  im 
portune, 

I  will  try  the  strength  of  my  hand  ! 
If  I  fail,  I  shall  fall  not  among  the  mis 
taken, 

Whom  you  dare  deride  : 
If  I  win,  you  shall  hear,  and  see,  and  at 

last  awaken 
To  thank  me  because  I  defied  ! 


THE  SUNSHINE  OF  THE  GODS. 


WHO  shall  sunder  the  fetters, 
Who  scale  the  invisible  ramparts 
Whereon  our  nimblest  forces 
Hurl  their  vigor  in  vain  1 
Where,  like  the  baffling  crystal 
To  a  wildered  bird  of  the  heavens, 
Something  holds  and  imprisons 
The  eager,  the  stirring  brain  ? 


Alas,  from  the  fresh  emotion, 
From  thought  that  is  born  of  feeling, 
From  form,  self-shaped,  and  slowly 
Its  own  completeness  evolving, 
To  the  rhythmic  speech,  how  long  ! 
What  hand  shall  master  the  tumult 
Where  one  on  the  other  tramples, 
And  none  escapes  a  wrong  ? 
Where  the  crowding  germs  of  a  thou 
sand 

Fancies  encumber  the  portal, 
Till  one  plucks  a  voice  from  the  murmurs 
A.nd  lifts  himself  into  Song  ! 


As  a  man  that  walks  in  the  mist, 
4s  one  that  gropes  for  the  morning 


Through  lengthening  chambers  of  twi 
light, 

The  souls  of  the  poems  wander 

llestless,  and  dumb,  and  lost, 

Till  the  Word,  like  a  beam  of  morn 
ing, 

Shivers  the  pregnant  silence, 

And  the  light  of  speech  descends 

Like  a  tongue  of  the  Pentecost ! 


Ah,  moment  not  to  be  purchased, 
Not  to  be  won  by  prayers, 
Not  by  toil  to  be  conquered, 
But  given,  lest  one  despair, 
By  the  Gods  in  wayward  kindness, 
Stay —  thou  art  all  too  fair  ! 
Hour  of  the  dancing  measures, 
Sylph  of  the  dew  and  rainbow, 
Let  us  clutch  thy  shining  hair  ! 


For  the  mist  is  blown  from  the  mind, 
For  the  impotent  yearning  is  over, 
And   the  wings  of  the  thoughts  have 

power : 

In  the  warmth  and  the  glow  creative 
Existence  mellows  and  ripens, 
And  a  crowd  of  swift  surprises 
Sweetens  the  fortunate  hour  ; 
Till  a  shudder  of  rapture  loosens 
The  tears  that  hang  on  the  eyelids 
Like  a  breeze-suspended  shower, 
With  a  sense  of  heavenly  freshness 
Blown  from  beyond  the  sunshine, 
And    the    blood,    like  the   sap   of   the 

roses, 
Breaks  in  to  bud  and  flower. 


'T  is  the  Sunshine  of  the  Gods, 
The  sudden  light  that  quickens, 
Unites  the  nimble  forces, 
And  yokes  the  shy  expression 
To  the  thoughts  that  waited  long,  — 
Waiting  and  wooing  vainly  : 
But  now  they  meet  like  lovers 
In  the  time  of  willing  increase, 
Each  warming  each,  and  giving 
The  kiss  that  maketh  strong  : 
And  the  mind  feels  fairest  May-time 
In  the  marriage  of  its  passions, 
For  Thought  is  one  with  Speech, 
In  the  Sunshine  of  the  Gods, 
And  Speech  is  one  with  Song ! 


NOTUS  IGNOTO. 


181 


Then  a  rhythmic  pulse  makes  order 

In  the  troops  of  wandering  fancies  : 

Held  in  soft  subordination, 

Lo !   they  follow,  lead,  or  fly. 

The  fields  of  their  feet  are  endless, 

And  the  heights  and  the  deeps  are  open 

To  the  glance  of  the  equal  sky : 

And  the  Masters  sit  no  longer 

In  inaccessible  distance, 

But  give  to  the  haughtiest  question, 

Smiling,  a  sweet  reply. 


Dost  mourn,  because  the  moment 
Is  a  gift  beyond  thy  will,  — 
A  gift  thy  dreams  had  promised, 
Yet  they  gave  to  Chance  its  keeping 
And  fettered  thy  free  achievement 
With  the  hopes  they  not  fulfil  ? 
Dost  sigh  o'er  the  fleeting  rapture, 
The  bliss  of  reconcilement 
Of  powers  that  work  apart, 
Yet  lean  on  each  other  still  ? 


Be  glad,  for  this  is  the  token, 

The  sign  and  the  seal  of  the  Poet : 

Were  it  held  by  will  or  endeavor, 

There  were  naught  so  precious  in  Song. 

Wait :  for  the  shadows  unlifted 

To  a  million  that  crave  the  sunshine, 

Shall  be  lifted  for  thee  erelong. 

Light  from  the  loftier  regions 

Here  unattainable  ever,  — 

Bath  of  brightness  and  beauty,  — 

Let  it  make  thee  glad  and  strong  ! 

Not  to  clamor  or  fury, 

Not  to  lament  or  yearning, 

But  to  faith  and  patience  cometh 

The  Sunshine  of  the  Gods, 

The  hour  of  perfect  Song  ! 


NOTUS  IGNOTO. 


Do  you  sigh  for  the  power  you  dream 

of, 

The  fair,  evasive  secret, 
The  rare  imagined  passion, 
O  Friend  unknown  ! 
Do  you  haunt  Egyptian  portals, 
Where,  within,  the  laboring  goddess 


Yields  to  the  hands  of  her  chosen 
The  sacred  child,  alone  1 


Ah,  pause !    There  is  consolation 

For  you,  and  pride  : 

Free  of  choice  and  worship, 

Spared  the  pang  and  effort, 

Nor  partial  made  by  triumph, 

The  poet's  limitations 

You  lightly  set  aside  : 

Revived,  in  your  fresher  spirit 

The  buds  of  my  thought  may  blossom 

And  the  clew,  from  weary  fingers 

Fallen,  become  your  guide  ! 

The  taker,  even  as  the  giver, 

The  user  as  the  maker, 

Soil  as  seed,  and  rain  as  sunshine, 

Alike  are  glorified  ! 


Loss  with  gain  is  balanced  ; 

You  may  reach,  when  I  but  beckon ; 

You  may  drink,  though  mine  the  TU> 

tage, 

You  complete  what  I  begun. 
When  at  the  temple-door  I  falter, 
You  advance  to  the  altar ; 
I  but  rise  to  the  daybreak, 
You  to  the  sun  ! 
My  goal  is  your  beginning : 
My  steeps  of  aspiration 
For  you  are 


Hark  !  the  nightingale  is  chanting 
As  if  her  mate  but  knew ; 
Yet  the  dream  within  me 
Which  the  bird-voice  wakens, 
Takes  from  her  unconscious 
Prompting,  form  and  hue  : 
So  the  song  I  sing  you, 
Voice  alone  of  my  being, 
Song  for  the  mate  and  the  nestling, 
Finer  and  sweeter  meaning 
May  possess  for  you  ! 
Lifting  to  starry  summits, 
Filling  with  infinite  passion, 
While  the  witless  singer  broodeth 
In  the  darkness  and  the  dew  ! 


Carved  on  the  rock  as  an  arrow 
To  point  your  path,  am  I : 


182 


LYRICS. 


A  cloud  that  tells,  in  the  heavens, 

Which  way  the  breezes  fly  : 

A  brook  that  is  born  in  the  meadows, 

And  wanders  at  will,  nor  guesses 

Whither  its  waters  hie  : 

A  child  that  scatters  blossoms, 

Thoughtless  of  memoried  odors, 

Or  sweet  surprises  of  color, 

That,  waken  when  you  go  by : 

A  bee-bird  of  the  woodland, 

That  finds  the  honeyed  hollows 

Of  ancient  oaks,  for  others,  — 

Even  as  these,  am  I ! 


Accept,  and  enjoy,  and  follow,  — 

Conquer  wherein  I  yield  ! 

Make  yours  the  bright  conclusion, 

From  me  concealed ! 

Truth,  to  whom  will  possess  it, 

Beauty  to  whom  embraces, 

Song  and  its  inmost  secret, 

Life  and  its  unheard  mu.sic, 

To  whom  will  hear  and  know  them. 

Are  ever  revealed ! 

IN  MY  VINEYARD. 


AT  last  the  dream  that  clad  the  field 

Is  fairest  fact,  and  stable  ; 
At  last  my  vines  a  covert  yield, 

A  patch  for  song  and  fable. 
I  thread  the  rustling  ranks,  that  hide 

Their  misty  violet  treasure, 
And  part  the   sprays  with  more   than 
pride, 

And  more  than  owner's  pleasure. 


The  tender  shoots,  the  fragrance  fine, 

Betray  the  garden's  poet, 
Whose  daintiest  life  is  turned  to  wine, 

Yet  half  is  shy  to  show  it,  — 
The  epicure,  who  yields  to  toil 

A  scarce  fulfilled  reliance, 
But  takes  from  sun  and  dew  and  soil 

A  grace  unguessed  by  science. 


Faint  odors,  from  the  bunches  blown, 
Surround  me  and  subdue  me ; 

The  vineyard-breath  of  many  a  zone 
Is  softly  breathing  through  me  : 


From  slopes  of  Eshkol,  in  the  sun, 
And  many  a  hillside  classic  : 

From  where  Faleruian  juices  run, 
And  where  they  press  the  Massic ! 


Where  airy  terraces,  on  high, 

The  hungry  vats  replenish, 
And,   less   from   earth   than  from  the 
sky, 

Distil  the  golden  Rhenish  : 
Where,  light  of  heart,  the  Bordelaia 

Compels  his  stony  level 
To  burst  and  foam  in  purple  spray,  — 

The  rose  that  crowns  the  revel ! 


So  here,  as  there,  the  subject  earth 

Shall  take  a  tenderer  duty ; 
And  Labor  walk  with  harmless  Mirth, 

And  wed  with  loving  Beauty  : 
So,  here,  a  gracious  life  shall  fix 

Its  seat,  in  sunnier  weather  ; 
For  sap  and  blood  so  sweetly  mix, 

And  richly  run  together ! 


The  vine  was  exiled  from  the  land 

That  bore  but  needful  burdens  ; 
But  now  we  slack  the  weary  hand, 

And  look  for  gentler  guerdons  : 
We  take  from  Ease  a  grace  above 

The  strength  we  took  from  Labor, 
And  win  to  laugh,  and  woo  to  love, 

Each  grimly-earnest  neighbor. 


What  idle  dreams !     Even  as  I  muse, 

I  feel  a  falling  shadow ; 
And  vapors  blur  and  clouds  confuse 

My  coming  Eldorado. 
Portentous,  grim,  a  ghost  draws  nigh, 

To  clip  my  flying  fancy, 
And  change  the  shows  of  earth  and  skj 

With  evil  necromancy. 


The  leaves  on  every  vine-branch  curl 
As  if  a  frost  had  stung  them  ; 

The  bunches  shrivel,  snap,  and  whirl 
As  if  a  tempest  flung  them ; 

And  as  the  ghost  his  forehead  shakes, 
Denying  and  commanding, 


THE   TWO   HOMES. 


183 


But  withered  stalks  and  barren  stakes 
Surround  me  where  I  'm  standing. 


"  Beware !  "  the  spectre  cried ;  "  the  woe 

Of  this  delusive  culture  ! 
The  nightingale  that  lures  thee  so 

Shall  hatch  a  ravening  vulture. 
To  feed  the  vat,  to  fill  the  bin, 

Thou  pluck'st  the  vineyard's  foison, 
That  drugs  the  cnp  of  mirth  with  sin, 

The  veins  of  health  with  poison  ! " 


But  now  a  golden  mist  was  born, 

With  violet  odors  mingled  : 
I  felt  a  brightness,  as  of  morn, 

And  all  my  pulses  tingled ; 
And  forms  arose, —  among  them  first 

The  old  Ionian  lion, 
And  they,  Sicilian  Muses  nursed,  — 

Theocritus  and  Bion. 


And  he  of  Teos,  he  of  Rome, 

The  Sabine  bard  and  urban ; 
And  Saadi,  from  his  Persian  home, 

And  Hafiz  in  his  turban  : 
And   Shakespeare,   silent,   sweet,    and 
grave, 

And  Herrick  with  his  lawns  on  ; 
And  Luther,  mellow,  burly,  brave, 

Along  with  Rare  Ben  Jonson  ! 


'  Be  comforted  !  "  they  seemed  to  say  ; 

"  For  Nature  does  no  treasons 
She  neither  gives  nor  takes  away 

Without  eternal  reasons. 
She  heaps  the  stores  of  corn  and  oil 

In  such  a  liberal  measure, 
That,  past  the  utmost  need  of  Toil, 

There 's  something  left  for  Pleasure. 


"  The  secret  soul  of  sun  and  dew 

Not  vainly  she  distilleth, 
And  from  these  globes  of  pink  and  blue 

A  harmless  cup  she  filleth  : 
Who  loveth  her  may  take  delight 

In  what  for  him  she  dresses, 
Nor  find  in  cheerful  appetite 

The  portal  to  excesses. 


"  Yes,  ever  since  the  race  began 

To  press  the  vineyard's  juices, 
It  was  the  brute  within  the  man 

Defiled  their  nobler  uses  ; 
But  they  who  take  from  order  joy, 

And  make  denial  duty, 
Provoke  the  brute  they  should  destroy 

By  Freedom  and  by  Beauty ! " 


They  spake  ;  and  lo  !  the  baleful  shape 

Grew  dim,  and  then  retreated ; 
And  bending  o'er  the  hoarded  grape, 

The  vines  my  vision  greeted. 
The  sunshine  burst,  the  breezes  turned 

The  leaves  till  they  were  hoary, 
And  over  all  the  vineyard  burned 

A  fresher  light  of  glory ! 


TIIE  TWO  HOMES. 


MY  home  was  seated  high  and  fair, 

Upon  a  mountain's  side ; 
The  day  was  longest,  brightest  there , 

Beneath,  the  world  was  wide. 
Across  its  blue,  embracing  zone 
The  rivers  gleamed,  the  cities  shone, 
And  over  the  edge  of  the  fading  rim 
I  saw  the  storms  in  the  distance  dim, 

And  the  flash  of  the  soundless  thunder 


But  weary  grew  the  sharp,  cold  wine 
Of  winds  that  never  kissed, 

The  changeless  green  of  fir  and  pine, 
The  gray  and  clinging  mist. 

Above  the  granite  sprang  no  bowers  ; 

The  soil  gave  low  and  scentless  flowers 

And  the  drone  and  din  of  the  wate* 
fall 

Became  a  challenge,  a  taunting  call  : 
"  'T  is  fair,  't  is  fair  in  the  valley ! " 


Of  all  the  homesteads  deep  and  far 

My  fancy  clung  to  one, 
Whose  gable  burned,  a  mellow  star, 

Touched  by  the  sinking  sun. 
Unseen  around,  but  not  unguessed, 
The  orchards  made  a  leafy  nest  • 


184 


LYRICS. 


The  tur£  before  it  was  thick,  I  knew, 
And  bees  were  busy  the  garden  through, 
And  the  windows  were  dark  with  roses. 


"  'T  is  happier  there,  below,"  I  sighed : 

The  world  is  warm  and  near, 
And  closer  love  and  comfort  hide, 

That  cannot  reach  me  here. 
Who  there  abides  must  be  so  blest 
He  '11  share  with  me  his  sheltered  nest, 
If  down  to  the  valley  I  should  go, 
Leaving  the  granite,  the  pines  and  snow, 
And  the  winds  that  are  keen  as  lances." 


I  wandered  down,  by  ridge  and  dell ; 

The  way  was  rough  and  long  : 
Though  earlier  shadows  round  me  fell, 

I  cheered  them  with  my  song. 
The  world's  great  circle  narrower  grew, 
Till  hedge  and  thicket  hid  the  blue  ; 
But  over  the  orchards,  near  at  hand, 
The  gable  shone  on  the  quiet  land, 

And  far  away  waa  the  mountain ! 


Then  came  the  master:  mournful-eyed 

And  stern  of  brow  was  he. 
"  Oh,  planted  in  such  peace  ! "  I  cried, 

"  Spare  but  the  least  to  me  ! " 
"  Who  seeks,"  he  said,  "  this  brooding 

haze, 

The  tameness  of  these  weary  days  1 
The  highway's  dust,  the  glimmer  and 

heat, 
The  woods  that  fetter  the  young  wind's 

feef, 
And  hide  the  world  and  its  beauty  1  " 


He  stretched  his  hand ;  he  looked  afar 

With  eyes  of  old  desire  : 
I  saw  my  home,  a  mellow  star 

That  held  the  sunset's  fire. 
"  But  yonder  home,"  he   cried,    "  how 

fair! 

Its  chambers  burn  like  gilded  air  ; 
I  know  that   the   gardens   are  wild  as 

dreams, 
With  the  sweep  of  winds,  the  dash  of 

streams, 

And  the  pines  that  sound  as  an  an 
them  ! 


"  So  quiet,  so  serenely  high 

It  sits,  when  clouds  are  furled, 
And  knows  the  beauty  of  the  sky, 

The  glory  of  the  world  ! 
Who  there  abides  must  be  so  blest 
He  '11  share  with  me  that  lofty  crest, 
If  up  to  the  mountain  I  should  go, 
Leaving  the  dust  and  the  glare  below, 
And  the  weary  life  of  the  valley ! " 


IKIS. 

i. 

I  AM  born  from  the  womb  of  the  cloud 

And  the  strength  of  the  ardent  sun, 
When  the  winds  have  ceased  to  be  loud, 

And  the  rivers  of  rain  to  run. 
Then  light,  on  my  sevenfold  arch, 

I  swing  in  the  silence  of  air, 
While  the  vapors  beneath  me  march 

And  leave  the  sweet  earth  bare. 


For  a  moment,  I  hover  and  gleam 

On  the  skirts  of  the  sinking  storm ; 
And  I  die  in  the  bliss  of  the  beam 

That  gave  me  being  and  form. 
I  fade,  as  in  human  hearts 

The  rapture  that  mocks  the  will : 
I  pass,  as  a  dream  departs 

That  cannot  itself  fulfil ! 


Beyond  the  bridge  I  have  spanned 

The  fields  of  the  Poet  unfold, 
And  the  riches  of  Fairyland 

At  my  bases  of  misty  gold. 
I  keep  the  wealth  of  the  spheres 

Which  the  high  Gods  never  have  won 
And  I  coin,  from  their  airy  tears, 

The  diadem  of  the  sun  ! 


For  some  have  stolen  the  grace 

That  is  hidden  in  rest  or  strife  -• 
And  some  have  copied  the  face 

Or  echoed  the  voice  of  Life ; 
And  some  have  woven  of  sound 

A  chain  of  the  sweetest  control, 
And  some  have  fabled  or  found 

The  key  to  the  human  soul : 


PENN  CALVIN. 


185 


But  I,  from  the  blank  of  the  air 

And  the  white  of  the  barren  beam, 
Have  wrought  the  colors  that  flare 

In  the  forms  of  a  painter's  dream. 
I  gather  the  souls  of  the  flowers, 

And  the  sparks  of  the  gems,  to  me  ; 
Till  pale  are  the  blossoming  bowers, 

And  dim  the  chameleon  sea ! 


By  the  soul's  bright  sun,  the  eye, 

I  am  thrown  on  the  artist's  brain ; 
He  follows  me,  and  I  fly  ; 

He  pauses,  I  stand  again. 
O'er  the  reach  of  the  painted  world 

My  chorded  colors  I  hold, 
On  a  canvas  of  cloud  im  pearled 

Drawn  with  a  brush  of  gold  ! 


If  I  lure,  as  a  mocking  sprite, 

I  give,  as  a  goddess  bestows, 
The  red,  with  its  soul  of  might, 

And  the  blue,  with  its  cool  repose  ; 
The  yellow  that  beckons  and  beams, 

And  the  gentler  children  they  bear ; 
For  the  portal  of  Art's  high  dreams 

Is  builded  of  Light  and  Air  ! 


IMPLORA  PACE. 

THE  clouds  that  stoop  from  yonder  sky 
Discharge    their    burdens,    and    are 
free  ; 

The  streams  that  take  them  hasten  by, 
To  find  relief  in  lake  and  sea. 

The  wildest  wind  in  vales  afar 

Sleeps,  pillowed  on  its  ruffled  wings ; 

And  song,  through  many  a  stormy  bar, 
Beats  into  silence  on  the  strings  ! 

And  love  o'ercomes  his  young  unrest, 
And  first  ambition's  flight  is  o'er ; 

And  doubt  is  cradled  on  the  breast 
Of  perfect  faith,  and  speaks  no  more. 

Our  dreams  and  passions  cease  to 
dare, 

And  homely  patience  learns  her  part ; 
Vet  still  some  keen,  pursuing  care 

Forbids  consent  to  brain  and 'heart. 


The  gift  unreached,  beyond  the  hand ; 

The  fault  in  all  ot  beauty  won; 
The  mildew  of  the  harvest  land, 

The  spots  upon  the  risen  sun  ! 

And  still  some  cheaper  service  claims 
The  will  that  leaps  to  loftier  call : 

Some  cloud  is  cast  on  splendid  aims, 
On  power   achieved    some    common 
thrall. 

To  spoil  each  beckoning  victory, 
A  thousand  pygmy  hands  are  thrust ; 

And,  round  each  height  attained,  we  see 
Our  ether  dim  with  lower  dust. 

Ah,  could  we  breathe  some  peaceful  air, 
And  all  save  purpose  there  forget, 

Till  eager  courage  learn  to  bear 
The  gadfly's  sting,  the  pebble's  fret ! 

Let  higher  goal  and  harsher  way, 
To  test  our  virtue,  then  combine ! 

'T  is  not  for  idle  ease  we  pray, 
But  freedom  for  our  task  divine. 


PENN  CALVIN. 

i. 

SEARCH  high  and  low,  search  up  and 
down, 

By  light  of  stars  or  sun, 
And  of  all  the  good  folks  of  our  town 

There 's  like  Penn  Calvin  none. 
He  lightly  laughs  when  all  condemn, 

He  smiles  when  others  pray ; 
And  what  is  sorest  truth  to  them 

To  him  is  idle  play. 


"  Penn  Calvin,  lift,  as  duty  bids, 

The  load  we  all  must  bear  !  " 
He  only  lifts  his  languid  lids, 

And  says  :  "  The  morn  is  fair ! " 
"  Learn  while  you  may !  for  Life  is  stern, 

And  Art,  alas !  is  long." 
He  hums  and  answers :  "  Yes,  I  learn 

The  cadence  of  a  song." 


"  The  world  is  dark  with  human  woe ; 

Man  eats  of  bitter  food." 
"  The  world,"  he  says,  "  is  all  aglow 

With  beauty,  bliss,  and  good  1 " 


186 


LYRICS. 


•'*  To  crush  the  senses  you  must  strive, 
The  beast  of  flesh  destroy ! " 

"  God  gave  this  hody,  all  alive, 
Arid  every  sense  is  joy  ! " 


"  Nay,  these  he  heathen  words  we  hear ; 

The  faith  they  teach  is  flown, — 
A  mist  that  clings  to  temples  drear 

And  altars  overthrown." 
"  I  reck  not  how  nor  whence  it  came," 

He  answers ;  "  I  possess  : 
If  heathens  felt  and  owned  the  same, 

How  bright  was  heathenesse  !  " 


"  Though  you  be  stubborn  to  believe, 

Yet  learn  to  grasp  and  hold  : 
There 's  power  and  honor  to  achieve, 

And  royal  rule  of  gold  !  " 
fenn  Calvin  plucked  an  open  rose 

And  carolled  to  the  sky  : 
"Shine,  sun  of  Day,  until  its  close, — 

They  live,  and  so  do  I !  " 


His  eyes  are  clear  as  they  were  kissed 

By  some  unrisen  dawn  ; 
Our  grave  and  stern  philanthropist 

Looks  sad,  and  passes  on, 
Our  pastor  scowls,  the  pious  flock 

Avert  their  heads,  and  flee  ; 
For  pestilence  or  earthquake  shock 

Less  dreadful  seems  than  he. 


But  all  the  children  round  him  cling, 

Depraved  as  they  were  born  ; 
And  vicious  men  his  praises  sing, 

Whom  he  forgets  to  scorn. 
Penn  Calvin's  strange  indifference  gives 

Our  folks  a  grievous  care  : 
He 's  simply  glad  because  he  lives, 

And  glad  the  world  is  fair  ! 

SUMMEE  NIGHT. 

VARIATIONS    ON    CERTAIN    MELODIES. 

I. 
ANDANTE. 

UNDER  the  full-blown   linden  and  the 

plane, 
That  link  their  arms  above 


In  mute,  mysterious  love, 

I  hear  the  strain  ! 
Is  it  the  far  postilion's  horn, 
Mellowed  by  starlight,  floating  up  tb 

valley, 

Or  song  of  love-sick  peasant,  borne 
Across  the  fields  of  fragrant  corn, 

And  poplar-guarded  alley  ? 
Now  from  the  woodbine  and  the  unsoen 

rose 

What  new  delight  is  showered  ? 
The  warm  wings  of  the  air 
Drop  into  downy  indolence  and  close, 

So  sweetly  overpowered : 
But  nothing  sleeps,  though  rest  seems 
everywhere. 


II. 


Something  came  with  the  falling  dusk, 
Came,  and   quickened   to  soft  un 
rest  : 

Something  floats  in  the  linden's  musk, 
And   throbs  in  the   brook  on    the 

meadow's  breast. 

Shy  Spirit  of  Love,  awake,  awake  ! 
All  things  feel  thee, 
And  all  reveal  thee  : 
The  night  was  given  for  thy  sweet 

sake. 
Toil  slinks  aside,  and  leaves  to  thee  the 

land  ; 
The   heart   beats   warmer  for  the   idle 

hand  ; 

The    timid    tongue     unlearns    its 
wrong, 

And  speech  is  turned  to  song ; 
The  shaded  eyes  are  braver ; 
And  every  life,  like  flowers  whose  scent 
is  dumb 

Till  dew  and  darkness  come, 
Gives  forth  a  tender  savor. 
Oh,  each  so  lost  in  all,  who  may  re 
sist 

The  plea  of  lips  unkissed, 
Or,  hearing  such  a  strain, 
Though  kissed  a   thousand  times,  kiss 
not  again ! 

ra. 

APPASSIONATO. 

Was  it  a  distant  flute 

That  breathed,  and  now  is  mute? 


THE   SLEEPER. 


187 


Dr  that  lost  soul  men  call  the  nightin 
gale, 

In  bosky  coverts  hidden, 
Filling  with  sudden  passion  all  the  vale? 

Oh,  chant  again  the  tale, 
And  call  on  her  whose  name   returns, 
unbidden, 

A  longing  and  a  dream, 

Adelaida ! 

For  while  the  sprinkled  stars 
Sparkle,  and  wink,  and  gleam, 

Adelaida ! 

Darkness  and  perfume  cleave   the  un 
known  bars 

Between  the  enamored  heart   and 
thee, 

And  thou  and  I  are  free, 

Adelaida ! 

Less  than  a  name,  a  melody,  art  thou, 
A  hope,  a  haunting  vow! 
The  passion-cloven 
Spirit  of  thy  Beethoven 
Claimed  with  less  ardor  than  I  claim 
thee  now, 

Adelaida ! 
Take  form,  at  last :    from   these  o'er- 

bending  branches 
Descend,  or  from  the  grass  arise 

I  scarce  shall  see  thine  eyes, 
Or.  know  what  blush  the  shadow 

stanches  ; 

But  all  my  being's  empty  urn  shall  be 
Filled  with  thy  mystery ! 


CAPRICCIOSO. 

Nay,  nay  !  the  longings  tender, 
The  fear,  the  marvel,  and  the  mys 
tery, 
The  shy,  delicious  dread,  the  unreserved 

surrender, 
Give,  if  thou  canst,  to  me! 

For  I  would  be, 
In  this  expressive  languor, 
While  night  conceals,  the  wooed   and 

not  the  wooer  ; 

Shaken     with    supplication,    keen    as 
anger  ; 

Pursued,  and  thou  pursuer ! 
Plunder  my  bosom  of  its  hoarded  fire, 

And  so  assail  me, 
That  coy  denial  fail  me, 
Slain  by  the  mirrored  shape  of  my  de 
sire! 

Though  life  seem  overladen 


With  conquered  bliss,  it  only  craves  the 

more : 
Teach  me  the  other  half  of  passion's 

lore  — 
Be  thou  the  man,  and  I  the  maiden  ! 

Ah  !  come, 

While  earth  is  waiting,   heaven  is 
dumb, 

And  blossom-sighs 
So  penetrate  the  indolent  air, 
The   very  stars   grow  fragrant  in  the 
skies  ! 

Arise, 
And  thine  approach  shall  make  me 

fair, 

Thy  borrowed  pleading  all  too  soon  sub 
due  me, 

Till  both  forget  the  part 
And  she  who  failed  to  woo  me, 
So    caught,   is  held    to  my   impatient 
heart ! 


THE   SLEEPER. 

THE  glen  was  fair  as  some  Arcadian  dell, 
All  shadow,  coolness,  and  the  rush  of 
streams, 

Save  where  the  sprinkled  blaze  of  noon 
day  fell 

Like   stars   within    its   under-sky  of 
dreams. 

Rich  leaf  and  blossomed  grape  and  fern- 
tuft  made 

Odors  of  life  and  slumber  through  the 
shade. 

"  0  peaceful  heart  of  Nature  !  "  was  my 

sigh; 

"  How  dost  thou  shame,  in  thine  un 
conscious  bliss, 

Thy  sure  accordance  with  the  changing 
sky, 

0  quiet  heart,  the  restless  beat  of  this  ! 
Take  thou  the  place  false  friends  have 

vacant  left, 

And   bring  thy   bounty  to   repair  the 
theft ! " " 

So  sighing,  weary  with  tne  unsoothed 

pain 
From  insect-stings  of  women  and  of 

men, 
Uneasy  heart  and  ever-baffled  brain, 

1  bre'athed  the  lonely  beauty  of  the  glen, 
And  from  the  fragrant  shadows  where 

she  stood 
Evoked  the  shyest  Dryad  of  the  wood 


188 


LYRICS. 


Lo !  on  a  slanting  rock,  outstretched  at 

length, 

A  woodman  lay  in  slumber,  fair  as 
death, 

His  limbs   relaxed  in   all  their  supple 

strength, 

His  lips   half  parted   with  his  easy 
breath, 

And  by  one  gleam  of  hovering  light 
caressed 

His    bare    brown    arm  and  white   un 
covered  breast. 

"  Why  comes  he  here  ?  "  I  whispered, 

treading  soft 
The  hushing  moss  beside  his  flinty  bed ; 

"  Sweet  are  the  haycocks  in  yon  clover- 
croft,  — 

The  meadow  turf  were  light  beneath 
his  head : 

Could  he  not  slumber  by  the  orchard- 
tree, 

And  leave   this   quiet   unprofaned   for 
me?" 

But  something  held  my  step.  •  I  bent, 

and  scanned 

(As  one  might  view  a  veiny  agate- 
stone) 

The    hard,    half -open   fingers    of    his 

hand, 

Strong  cords  of  wrist,  knit  round  the 
jointed  bone, 

And  sunburnt  muscles,  firm  and  full  of 
power, 

But  harmless  now  as  petals  of  a  flower. 

There  lay  the  unconscious  Life,  but,  ah ! 

more  fair 

Than  ever  blindly  stirred  in  leaf  and 
bark, — 

Warmth,  beauty,  passion,  mystery  every 
where, 

Beyond  the  Dryad's  feebly  burning 
spark 

Of  cold  poetic  being  :  who  could  say 

If  here  the  angel  or  the  wild  beast  lay  ? 

Then  I  looked  up,  and  read  his  helpless 

face : 
Peace  touched  the  temples  and  the 

eyelids,  slept 

On  drooping  lashes,  made  itself  a  place 
In  smiles  that  slowly  to  the  corners 

crept 
Of  parting  lips,  and  came  and  went,  to 

show 
The  happy  freedom  of  the  heart  below. 


A  holy  rest !  wherein  the  man  became 

Man's  interceding  representative : 
In  Sleep's  white  realm  fell  off  his  mask 

of  blame, 
And  he  was  sacred,  for  that  he  did 

live. 
His  presence  marred  no  more  the  quiet 

deep, 
But   all   the  glen  became  a  shrine  of 

Sleep  ! 

And  then  I  mused  :  how  lovely  this  re 
pose  ! 

How  the  shut  sense  its  dwelling  con 
secrates  ! 

Sleep  guards  itself  against  the  hands  of 

foes  ; 

Its  breath  disarms  the  Envies  and  the 
Hates 

Which  haunt  our  lives :  were  this  mine 
enemy, 

My  stealthy  watch  could  not  less  rev 
erent  be  ! 

So  hang  their  hands,  that  would  have 

done  me  wrong ; 

So  sweet  their  breathing,  whose  un 
kindly  spite 

Provoked  the  bitter  measures   of  my 

song  ; 

So  might  they  slumber,  sacred  in  mj 
sight, 

Or  I  in  theirs  :  —  why  waste  contentious 
breath  ? 

Forget,   like    Sleep;   and  then  forgive, 
like  Death ! 


MY  FARM  :   A  FABLE. 

WITHIN  a  green  and  pleasant  land 

I  own  a  favorite  plantation, 
Whose    woods    and    meads,  if    rudely 

planned, 

Are  still,  at  least,  my  own  creation. 
Some  genial  sun  or  kindly  shower 
Has  here  and  there  wooed  forth  f, 

flower*, 

And  touched  the  fields  with  expecta 
tion. 

I  know  what  feeds  the  soil  I  till, 

What    harvest-growth    it    best    pro 
duces  : 

My  forests  shape  themselves  at  will, 
My  grapes  mature  their  proper  juices 
I  know  the  brambles  and 


HARPOCRATES. 


189 


But  know  the  fruits  and  wholesome 

seeds,  — 
Of  those  the  hurt,  of  these  the  uses. 

And  working  early,  working  late, 

Directing  :rude  and  random  Nature, 
T  is  joy  to  see  my  small  estate 
Grow  fairer  in  the  slightest  feature. 
If  but  a  single  wild-rose  blow, 
Or  fruit-tree  bend  with  April  snow, 
That  day  am  I  the  happiest  creature  ! 

But  round  the  borders  of  the  land 
Dwell  many  neighbors,  fond  of  rov 
ing; 

With  curious  eye  and  prying  hand 
About  my  fields  I  see  them  moving. 
Some  tread  my  choicest  herbage 

down, 
And  some  of  weeds  would  weave  a 

crown, 
And  bid  me  wear  it,  unreproving. 

"  What  trees  !  "  says  one ;   "  who  ever 

saw 

A  grove,  like  this,  of  my  possessing  ? 
This  vale  offends  my  upland's  law  ; 
This  sheltered  garden  needs  suppress 
ing. 
My   rocks  this  grass  would  never 

yield, 

And  how  absurd  the  level  field  ! 
What  here  will  grow  is  past  my  guess 
ing." 

"  Behold  the  slope  !  "  another  cries  : 

"  No  sign  of  bog  or  meadow  near  it ! 
A  varied  surface  I  despise  : 
There 's  not  a  stagnant  pool  to  cheer 

it!" 
"  Why  plough  at  all  ?  "  remarked 

a  third. 
"  Heaven  help  the  man  !  "  a  fourth 

I  heard,  — 

"  His  farm  's  a  jungle  :  let  him  clear 
it ! " 

No  friendly  counsel  I  disdain  : 

My  fields  are  free  to  every  comer ; 
?"et  that  which  one  to  praise  is  fain 
But  makes  another's  visage  glummer. 
I  bow  them  out,  and  welcome  n, 
But  while  I  seek  some  truth   to 

win 
Goes  by,  unused,  the  golden  summer ! 

A.h !  vain  the  hope  to  find  in  each 
The  wisdom  each  denies  the  other ; 


These  mazes  of  conflicting  speech 
All  theories  of  culture  smother. 
I'll    raise  and  reap,   with    honest 

hand, 

The  native  harvest  of  my  land ; 
Do  thou  the  same,  my  wiser  brother  1 


HARPOCRATES. 

"  The  rest  is  silence."  —  HAMLET 

I. 

THE  message  of  the  god  I  seek 

In  voice,  in  vision,  or  in  dream, 
Alike  on  frosty  Dorian  peak, 

Or  by  the  slow  Arcadian  stream  : 
Where'er  the  oracle  is  heard, 

I  bow  the  head  and  bend  the  knee ; 
In  dream,  in  vision,  or  in  word, 

The  sacred  secret  reaches  me. 


Athwart  the  dim  Trophonian  caves, 

Bat-like,  the  gloomy  whisper  flew ; 
The  lisping  plash  of  Paphian  waves 

Bathed  every  pulse  in  fiery  dew  : 
From  Phoebus,  on  his  cloven  hill, 

A  shaft  of  beauty  pierced  the  air, 
And  oaks  of  gray  Dodona  still 

Betrayed   the   Thunderer's   presence 
there. 


The  warmth  of  love,  the  grace  of  art, 

The  joys  that  breath  and  blood  ex 
press, 
The  desperate  forays  of  the  heart 

Into  an  unknown  wilderness, — 
All  these  I  know  :  but  sterner  needs 

Demand  the  knowledge  which  must 

dower 
The  life  that  on  achievement  feeds, 

The  grand  activity  of  power. 

IV. 

What  each  reveals  the  shadow  throws 

Of  something  unrevealed  behind  ; 
The  Secret's  lips  forever  close 

To  mock  the  secret  undivined  : 
Thence  late  I  came,  from  weary  dreams 

The  son  of  Isis  to  implore, 
Whose  temple-front  of  granite  gleams 

Across  the  Desert's  yellow  floor. 


190 


LYRICS. 


Lo  !  where  the  sand  insatiate,  drinks 

The  steady  splendor  of  the  air, 
Crouched  on  her  heavy  paws,  the  Sphinx 

Looks  forth  with  old,  unwearied  stare  ! 
Behind  her,  on  the  burning  wall, 

The  long  processions  flash  and  glow  : 
The  pillared  shadows  of  -the  hall 

Sleep  with  their  lotus-crowns  below. 


A  square  of  dark  beyond,  the  door 

Breathes    out    the    deep     adytum's 

gloom : 
I  cross  the  court's  deserted  floor, 

And  stand  within  the  sacred  room. 
The  priests  repose  from  finished  rite  ; 

No  echo  rings  from  pavements  trod; 
And  sits  alone,  in  swarthy  light, 

The  naked  child,  the  temple's  god. 


No  sceptre,  orb,  or  mystic  toy 

Proclaims    his    godship,   young   and 

warm 
He  sits  alone,  a  naked  boy, 

Clad  in  the  beauty  of  his  form. 
Dark,  solemn  stars,  of  radiance  mild, 

His  eyes  illume  the  golden  shade, 
And  sweetest  lips  that  never  smiled 

The  finger  hushes,  on  them  laid. 


Oh,  never  yet  in  trance  or  dream 

That  falls  when  crowned  desire  has 

died, 
So  breathed  the  air  of  power  supreme, 

So  breathed,  and  calmed,  and  satisfied ! 
Those  mystic  lips  were  not  unsealed 

The  temple's  awful  hush  to  break, 
But  unto  inmost  sense  revealed, 

The  deity  his  message  spake : 


•  If  me  thou  knowest,  stretch  thy  hand 

And  my  possessions  thou  shalt  reach  : 
(  grant  no  help,  I  break  no  band, 

I  sit  above  the  gods  that  teach. 
The  latest-born,  my  realm  includes 

The   old,  the   strong,   the   near,  the 

far,  — 
Kerene  beyond  their  changeful  moods, 

And  fixed  as  Nigat's  unmoving  star. 


"  A  child,  I  leave  the  dance  of  Earth 

To  be  my  horned  mother's  care  : 
My  father  Ammon's  Bacchic  mirth, 

Delighting  gods,  I  may  not  share. 
I  turn  from  Beauty,  Love,  and  Power, 

In  singing  vale,  on  laughing  sea ; 
From  Youth  and  Hope,  and  wait  the 
hour 

When  weary  Knowledge  turns  to  me 


"Beneath  my  hand  the  sacred  springs 

Of  Man's  mysterious  being  burst, 
And  Death  within  my  shadow  brings 

The  last  of  life,  to  greet  the  first. 
There  is  no  god,  or  grand  or  fair, 

On  Orcan  or  Olympian  field, 
But  must  to  me  his  treasures  bear, 

His  one  peculiar  secret  yield. 


"I  wear  no  garment,  drop  no  shad«j 

Before  the  eyes  that  all  things  see; 
My  worshippers,  howe'er  arrayed, 

Come  in  their  nakedness  to  me. 
The  forms  of  life  like  gilded  towers 

May  soar,  in  air  and  sunshine  drest,  — 
The  home  of  Passions  and  of  Powers,  — • 

Yet  mine  the  crypts  whereon  they  rest 


"Embracing  all,  sustaining  all. 

Consoling  with  uuuttered  lore, 
Who  finds  me  in  my  voiceless  hall 

Shall  need  the  oracles  no  more. 
I  am  the  knowledge  that  insures 

Peace,   after   Thought's   bewildering 

range ; 
I  am  the  patience  that  endures  ; 

I  am  the  truth  that  cannot  change  !  " 

EUN  WILD. 

HERE  was  the  gate.    The  broken  paling, 

As  if  before  the  wind,  inclines, 
The  posts  half  rotted,  and  the  pickets, 

failing, 
Held  only  up  by  vines. 

The  plum-trees  stand,  though  gnarled 

and  speckled 
With  leprosy  of  old  disease  ; 


CASA   GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


191 


By  cells  of  wormy  life  the  trunks  are 

freckled, 
And  inoss  enfolds  their  knees. 

I  push  aside  the  boughs  and  enter  : 

Alas  !  the  garden's  nymph  has  fled, 
With  every  charm  that  leaf  and  blossom 

lent  her, 
And  left  a  hag  instead. 

Some  female  satyr  from  the  thicket, 

Child  of  the  bramble  and  the  weed, 
Sprang   shouting   over   the   unguarded 

wicket 
With  all  her  savage  breed. 

She  banished  hence  the  ordered  graces 
That  smoothed  a  way  for  Beauty's 

feet, 
And  gave  her  ugliest  imps  the  vacant 

places, 
To  spoil  what  once  was  sweet. 

Here,  under  rankling  mulleins,  dwindle 

The  borders,  hidden  long  ago  ; 
Here  shoots  the  dock  in  many  a  rusty 

spindle, 
And  purslane  creeps  below. 

The  thyme  runs  wild,  and  vainly  sweet 
ens, 
Hid  from  its  bees,   the  conquering 

grass  ; 
And  even  the  rose  with  briery  menace 

threatens 
To  tear  me  as  I  pass. 

Where  show  the  weeds  a  grayer  color, 

The  stalks  of  lavender  and  rue 
Stretch  like  imploring  arms,  —  but,  ever 

duller, 
They  slowly  perish  too. 

Only  the  pear-tree's  fruitless  scion 
Exults  above  the  garden's  fall ; 
Duly  the  thick-maned  ivy,  like  a  lion, 
Devours  the  crumbling  wall. 

JVhat  still  survives  becomes  as  savage 

As  that  which  entered  to  destroy, 

Takin<r  an  air  of  riot  and  of  ravage, 

Of  strange  and  wanton  joy. 

No  copse  unpruned,  no  mountain  hollow, 

So  lawless  in  its  growth  may  be  : 
Where  the  wild  weeds  have  room  to 

chase  and  follow, 
They  graceful  are,  and  free. 


But  Nature  here  attempts  revenges 

For  her  obedience  unto  toil ; 
She  brings  her  rankest  life  with  loath 
some  changes 
To  smite  the  fattened  soil 

For  herbs  of  sweet  and  wholesome  savor 

She  plants  her  stems  of  bitter  jJce  ; 

From  flowers  she  steals  the  scent,  from 

fruits  the  flavor, 
From  homelier  things  the  use. 

Her  angel  is  a  mocking  devil, 

If  once  the  law  relax  its  bands ; 
In  Man's  neglected  fields  she  holds  her 

revel, 
Takes  back,  and  spoils  his  lands. 

Once  having  broken  ground,  he  never 

The  virgin  sod  can  plant  again  : 
The  soil  demands  his  services  forever, — 
And  God  gives  sun  and  rain ! 


"CASA  GUIDI  WINDOWS.' 

RETURNED  to  warm  existence, — even 
as  one 

Sentenced,  then  blotted  from  the  heads 
man's  book, 

Accepts  with  doubt  the  life  again 
begun, — 

I  leave  the  duress  of  my  couch,  and  look 

Through  Casa  Guidi  windows  to  the  sun. 

A  fate  like  Farinata's  held  me  fast 
In  some  devouring  pit  of  fever-fire. 
Until,  from  ceaseless  forms  of  toil  that 

cast 
Their  will  upon  me,  whirled  in  endless 

gyre, 
The  Spirit  of  the  House  brought  help 

at  last. 

With  Giotto  wrestling,  through  the  des 
perate  hours 

A  ihousand  crowded  frescos  must  I  paint, 
Or  snatch  from  twilights  dim,  and  dusky 

bowers, 

Alternate  forms  of 'bacchanal  and  saint, 
The  streets  of  Florence  and  her  beau 
teous  towers. 

Weak,  wasted  with  those  torments  of 

the  brain, 

The  circles  of  the  Tuscan  master's  hell 
Were  dreams  no  more;  but  when  their 

fiery  strain 


192 


LYRICS. 


Was  fiercest,  deep  and  sudden  stillness 

fell 
Athwart  the  storm,  and  all  was  peace 

again. 

She  came,  whom  Casa  Guidi's  chambers 

knew, 
And  know  more  proudly,  an  Immortal, 

now: 
The   air  without  a  star  was  shivered 

through 

With  the  resistless  radiance  of  her  brow, 
And  glimmering  landscapes  from  the 

darkness  grew. 

Thin,  phantom-like ;  and  yet  she  brought 
me  rest. 

Unspoken  words,  an  understood  com 
mand 

Sealed  weary  lids  with  sleep,  together 
pressed 

In  clasping  quiet  wandering  hand  to 
hand, 

And  smoothed  the  folded  cloth  above 
the  breast. 

Now,  looking  through  these  windows, 

where  the  day 
Shines  on  a  terrace  splendid  with  the 

gold 
Of    autumn    shrubs,    and    green   with 

glossy  bay, 
Once  more  her  face,  re-made  from  dust, 

I  hold 
In  light  so  clear  it  cannot  pass  away :  — 

The  quiet  brow ;  the  face  so  frail  and  fair 
For  such  a  voice  of  song  ;  the  steady  eye, 
Where  shone  the  spirit  fated  to  outwear 
Its  fragile  house  ;  —  and  on  her  features 

lie 
The  soft  half-shadows  of  her  drooping 

hair. 

Who  could  forget  those  features,  having 
known  ? 

Whose  memory  do  his  kindling  rever 
ence  wrong 

That  heard  the  soft  Ionian  flute,  whose 
tone 

Changed  with  the  silver  trumpet  of  her 
song  ? 

t?5  sweeter  airs  from  woman's  lips 
were  blown. 

Ah,  in  the  silence  she  has  left  behind 
How  many  a  sorrowing  roice  (f  life  is 
still! 


Songless  she  left  the  land  that  cannot 

find 
Song  for  its  heroes ;  and  the  Roman 

bill, 
Once  free,  shall  for  her  ghost  the  laurel 

wind. 

The   tablet  tells  you,  "  Here  she  wrote 

and  died," 
And  grateful  Florence  bids  the  record 

stand : 
Here   bend   Italian   love    and   English 

pride 
Above  her  grave,  —  and  one   remoter 

land, 
Free  as  her  prayers  would  make  it,  at 

their  side. 

I  will  not  doubt  the  vision  :  yonder  seo 

The  moving  clouds  that  speak  of  free 
dom  won ! 

And  life,  new-lighted,  with  a  lark-like 
glee 

Through  Casa  Guidi  windows  hails  the 
sun, 

Grown  from  the  rest  her  spirit  gave  to 

me. 
FLORENCE,  1867 


THE  GUESTS  OF  NIGHT. 

I  RIDE  in  a  gloomy  land, 

I  travel  a  ghostly  shore,  — 
Shadows  on  either  hand, 

Darkness  behind  and  before  ; 
Veils  of  the  summer  night 

Dusking  the  woods  I  know ; 
A  whisper  haunts  the  height, 

And  the  rivulet  croons  below. 

A  waft  from  the  roadside  bank 

Tells  where  the  wild-rose  nods  ; 
The  hollows  are  heavy  and  dank 

With  the  steam  of  the  golden-rods: 
Incense  of  Night  and  Death, 

Odors  of  Life  and  Day, 
Meet  and  mix  in  a  breath, 

Drug  me,  and  lapse  away. 

Is  it  the  hand  of  the  Past, 

Stretched  from  its  open  tomb, 
Or  a  spell  from  thy  glarnoury  cast, 

O  mellow  and  mystic  gloom  ? 
All,  wherein  I  have  part, 

All  that  was  loss  or  gain, 
Slips  from  the  clasping  heart, 

Breaks  from  the  grasrjiug  brain. 


SOLDIERS   OF   PEACE. 


193 


Lo,  what  is  left  ?    I  am  bare 

As  a  new-born  soul,  —  I  am  naught ; 
My  deeds  are  as  dust  in  air, 

My  words  are  as  ghosts  of  thought. 
I  ride  through  the  night  alone, 

Detached  from  the  life  that  seemed, 
And  the  best  I  have  felt  or  known 

Is  less  than  the  least  I  dreamed. 

But  the  Night,  like  Agrippa's  glass, 

Now,  as  I  question  it,  clears  ; 
Dver  its  vacancy  pass 

The  shapes  of  the  crowded  years  ; 
Meanest  and  most  august, 

Hated  or  loved,  I  see 
The  dead  that  have  long  been  dust, 

The  living,  so  dead  to  me  ! 

Place  in  the  word's  applause  ? 

Nay,  there  is  nothing  there  ! 
Strength  from  unyielding  laws  ? 

A  gleam,  and  the  glass  is  bare. 
The  lines  of  a  life  in  song  ? 

Faint  runes  on  the  rocks  of  time  ? 
I  see  but  a  formless  throng 

Of  shadows  that  fall  or  climb. 

What  else  ?     Am  I  then  despoiled 

Of  the  garments  I  wove  and  wore  ? 
Have  I  f-o  refrained  and  toiled, 

To  find  there  is  naught  in  store  ? 
I  have  loved,  —  I  love  !    Behold, 

How  the  steady  pictures  rise  ! 
And  the  shadows  are  pierced  with  gold 

From  the  stars  of  immortal  eyes. 

Nearest  or  most  remote, 

But  dearest,  hath  none  delayed  ; 
And  the  spirits  of  kisses  float 

O'er  the  lips  that  never  fade. 
The  Night  each  guest  denies 

Of  the  hand  or  haughty  brain, 
But  the  loves  that  were,  arise, 

And  the  loves  that  are,  remain. 


CHANT. 

FOR   THE   BRYANT   FESTIVAL. 
NOVEMBEB  5,  1861. 

ONE  hour  be  silent,  sounds  of  war  ! 

Delay  the  battle  he  foretold, 
&nd  let  the  Bard's  triumphant  star 
Send   down  from  heaven  its  milder 
gold! 

13 


Let  Fame,  that  plucks  but  laurel  now 
For  loyal  heroes,  turn  away, 

And  twine,  to  crown  our  poet's  brow, 
The  greener  garland  of  the  bay. 

For  he,  our  earliest  minstrel,  fills 

The  land  with  echoes,  sweet  and  long, 

Gives  language  to  her  silent  hills, 
And  bids  her  rivers  move  to  song. 

The  Phosphor  of  the  Nation's  dawn, 
Sole  risen  above  our  tuneless  coast, 

As  Hesper  now,  his  lamp  burns  on,  — 
The  leader  of  the  starry  host. 

He  sings  of  mountains  and  of  streams, 
Of  storied  field  and  haunted  dale, 

Yet  hears  a  voice  through  all  his  dreams, 
Which  says  :  "  The  Good  shall  yet 
prevail." 

He  sings  of  Truth,  he  sings  of  Right ; 

He  sings  of  Freedom,  and  his  strains 
March  with  our  armies  to  the  fight, 

Ring  in  the  bondman's  falling  chains. 

God,  bid  him  live,  till  in  her  place 
Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  again  shall 
rise,  — 

The  "  mother  of  a  mighty  race  " 
Fulfil  her  poet's  prophecies ! 

SOLDIERS  OF  PEACE. 
PKOVIDENCE,  R.  I.,  JUNE  27,  1877. 


IT  is  the  brave  that  first  forget, 
And  noble  foes  that  first  unite  ; 

Not  they  who  strife  and  passion  whet, 
Then  slink  when  comes  the  need  to 
smite. 

'T  is  mutual  courage  that  forgives, 

And  answering  honor  that  outlives 
The  onset's  hour,  the  battle's  day: 

The  hearts  that  dare  are  quick  to  feel ; 

The  hands  that  wound  are  soft  to  heal ; 

The  blood  that  dims  a  hero's  steel 
His  proud  tears  wash  away  ! 


One  holier  sun  awakes  at  last 

For  North  and  South  the  blithe,  bright 

hours : 
No  more  upon  our  dead  are  cast 

The  once  divided  gifts  of  flowers  : 


194 


LYRICS. 


But  where  the  live-oak  hides  in  moss, 
And  where  the  plumy  larches  toss 

Their  arms  above  the  mayflower's  bed, 

And  where  wide  waves  of  prairie  crawl 

To  meet,  far-west,  their  mountain-wall, 

The  People's  voice  says :  "  Peace  to  all ! 

We  honor  equal  dead." 


Oh,  never  from  our  elm-tree  shades 
So  sweetly  piped  the  thrush,  as  now; 

Nor,  'mid  the  lonely  Everglades, 

The  mocking-bird  on  cypress  bough  ! 

Nor  wild-grass  wove  by  meadow-rills, 

Nor  clover  on  the  happy  hills, 
So  soft  a  carpet  for  the  Spring ! 

Bound  is  each  hand  that  fain  would 
spoil  : 

The  Truce  of  God  upon  our  soil 

Descends,  like  Sabbath  after  toil, 
His  benisou  to  bring  ! 


'T  is  time  your  bard  restrung  his  harp, 
That  long  hath  echoed  in  its  note 

The  volley's  rattle,  fierce  and  sharp, 
The  thunder-bass  of  cannon-throat ; 

That  sang  of  fields  where  Glory  swayed, 

But  wingless  Victory  paused,  and  stayed 
To  see  her  only  flag  unfurled  ; 

That  summoned,  as  a  bugle  blown ; 

That  challenged,  as  a  trumpet's  tone; 

That  quickened,  as  a  bolt  is  thrown 
From  heaven,  to  shake  the  world  ! 


Ah  !  must  we  then  renounce  the  theme 
That  first  can  rouse  and  best  inspire, — 
The  splendor  of  the  soldier's  dream, 

The  ardor  of  the  patriot's  fire  ? 
When  each,  to  sternest  duty  bowed, 
Makes  all,  as  common  kindred,  proud, 

And  blots  the  long  reproach  of  Time,  — 
When  Youth  forgets  what  most  is  fair, 
And  Age  assumes  a  nobler  care, 
And  Manhood,  as  a  wave  in  air, 
Heaves  high,  to  fall  sublime ! 


The  virtues,  poured  in  lavish  flood 
To  whelm  our  coarser  Self  in  shame  ; 

The  pure  infection  of  the  blood 
That   burned  for  loftier  meed  than 
fame,  — 


Must  these  be  lost  ?  —  or  absent  now 
The  song  of  lip,  the  light  of  brow, 

Remembering  they  were  doubly  ours  * 
And,  though  we  honor  both  as  one, 
That  strain  of  blood,  in  both  begun, 
Say,  lies  it  buried  from  the  sun, 
Beneath  memorial  flowers  ? 


Not  so  !  —  the  summit  of  his  deed 
Is  the  true  measure  of  the  man, 
Though  once  alone  he  caught  the  speed 

That  every  baser  aim  outran. 
What  once  a  moment  is,  assures 
The  certainty  of  what  endures, 

And  thus  its  sacred  law  decrees  ; 

So  ye,  whom  battle  spared  or  scarred, 

Safe-sheltered  now  from  disregard, 

Hearken  to  England's  blind  old  bard : 

"  Peace  hath  her  victories !  " 


What  once,  in  fiery  test  of  war, 
So  proved  itself,  must  ever  stand, 

To  make  the  land  worth  living  for, 
Since  others  died  to  save  the  land  !  — 

Take  from  their  lips  the  parted  breath  ! 

Make  Life  as  glorious  as  is  Death 

To  them  that  triumph  when  they  fall : 

Still  bid  the  phantom  squadrons  throng  ; 

Their  purpose  and  their  will  prolong 

To  guard  the  pight,  repel  the  Wrong, 
And  giving,  gain,  their  all ! 


Are  they  but  soldiers  who  enlist 

When  peril  shocks  the  Nation's  heart  ? 
Who  leave  the  maiden's  lips  unkissed, 

Or  kiss  the  wife  and  child,  and  part  ?  — 
But  soldiers  then,  when  calls  the  drum 
And  calls  the  flashing  bayonet : "  Come  ! " 
And   batteries   challenge  :    "  If    you 

dare  !  "  — 

When  all  the  standards  wave  unfurled, 
And   other   clouds  than   Heaven's  are 

hurled 

To  dim  the  beauty  of  the  world, 
And  death  floats  free  in  air  ! 


They  most  are  soldiers,  who  shall  keep 
That  climax  of  their  manhood  yet ; 

Who  stand  on  guard  when  others  sleep 
And  be-ar  in  mind  what  all  forget ! 


THE   SONG   OF    1876. 


195 


Not  in  the  clash  of  steel  is  found, 
For  them,  the  only  battle-ground  : 
Equipped   and   armed,   through    life 

they  go, 
Their    hearts'   best    blood   resolved   to 

spend, 
Where    Honor    shows    some    grander 

end, — 

For  whom  each  true  man  is  a  friend, 
And  each  false  man  a  foe  1 


If  knaves  beguile,  by  felon  art, 
The  shifting  favor  of  the  hour ; 

If  civic  rule  from  right  depart, 

And  brazen  Impudence  has  power : 

If  low  Ambition  buy  his  place 

While  Merit  waits  in  half-disgrace, 
Still  undecided  sways  the  fight: 

The  bugle  still  to  charge  commands ; 

There  is  no  truce  of  tongues  or  hands, 

No  quarter,  while  one  foeman  stands 
To  mock  eternal  Right ! 


The  idle  blade  is  gnawed  with  rust, 
Though  meteor  of  a  hundred  fields ; 

The  lance,  unhandled,  falls  to  dust, 
That   proved   its   grain   on   shivered 
shields. 

And  Manhood,  that  has  learned  to  dare, 

Should  as  a  sword  his  courage  wear, 
His  honor  as  a  flag  defend  ;  — 

Should  stand,  amid  the  heedless  host, 

A  lifelong  sentry  at  his  post, 

His  sole  device  and  knightly  boast : 
To  break,  but  not  to  bend  ! 


Soldiers  of  Peace  !  —  in  war  began 
Your  service,  and  it  must  not  cease 

Until  the  soldier  through  the  man 
Has  conquered  and  ennobled  peace ! 

Frank  eyes  of  youth  grow  bright,  to  trace 

A.  spell  on  each  historic  face 
That  sets  your  lives  their  own  above ; 

And  woman's  homage,  sweet  and  shy, 

Not  woman's  pride  shall  dare  deny. 

Since  he  who  readiest  is  to  die 
Is  truest  in  his  love  ! 


fine  loyal  habit  summons  all 
From  out  the  dust  of  old  desires 


One  spark  of  truth  youi  deeds  let  fall 
Shall  fill  the  land  with  fresher  fires ! 
Though   Youth's   belief  be  Manhood's 

doubt, 
And  generous  hopes  be  trampled  out 

By  cynic  scorn  or  selfish  will, 
Yet  honor  stays,  devotion  burns, 
And  pride  that  mean  concession  spurna : 
No  man  his  early  faith  unlearns, 
And  keeps  his  manhood  still  1 


This,  Soldiers,  be  your  chosen  fate, 
Your  fame  that  longest  shall  endure. 

'T  is  noble,  thus  to  save  a  State, 
But  nobler  yet  to  make  it  pure. 

For    all    whose    swords  were    bravely 
crossed 

There  is  no  true  cause  that  was  lost ! 
Defeat  unites  with  Victory 

To  win,  for  each,  a  grander  aim, — 

One  Fatherland,  redeemed  from  blame; 

One  Past,  of  sadder,  prouder  fame ; 
One  Future,  just  and  free  ! 

THE  SONG  OF  1876. 


WAKEN,  voice  of  the  Land's  Devotion ) 

Spirit  of  freedom,  awaken  all ! 
Ring,  ye  shores,  to  the  Song  of  Ocean, 
Rivers,  answer,  and  mountains,  call ! 
The  golden  day  has  come : 
Let  every  tongue  be  dumb, 
That  sounded  its  malice  or  murmured 
its  fears ; 

She  hath  won  her  story; 
She  wears  her  glory  ; 
We  crown  her  the  Land  of  a  Hundred 
Years ! 


Out  of  darkness  and  toil  and  danger 
Into  the  light  of  Victory's  day, 
Help  to  the  weak,   and   home   to   th« 

stranger, 

Freedom  to  all,  she  hath  held  her 
way! 

Now  Europe's  orphans  rest 
Upon  her  mother-breast : 
The  voices  of  Nations  are  heard  in  the 
cheers ; 

That  shall  cast  upon  her 
New  love  and  honor, 
And  crown  her  the  Queen  of  a  Hundred 
Years ! 


196 


LYRICS. 


North  and  South,  we  are  met  as  broth 
ers  : 
East  and  West,  we  are  wedded  as 

one ! 

Bight  of  each  shall  secure  our  mother's; 
Child  of  each  is  her  faithful  son  ! 
We  give  Thee  heart  and  hand, 
Our  glorious  native  Land, 
For  hattle  has  tried  thee,  and  time  en 
dears  : 

We  will  write  thy  story, 
And  keep  thy  glory, 
As  pure  as  of  old  for  a  Thousand  Years ! 


IMPROVISATIONS. 


THROUGH  the  lonely  halls  of  the  night 

My  fancies  fly  to  thee : 
Through  the  lonely  halls  of  the  night, 

Alone,  I  cry  to  thee. 

For  the  stars  bring  presages 
Of  love,  and  of  love's  delight : 

Let  them  bear  my  messages 
Through  the  lonely  halls  of  the  night ! 

In  the  golden  porch  of  the  morn 

Thou  com'st  anew  to  me  : 
In  the  golden  porch  of  the  morn, 

Say,  art  thou  true  to  me  ? 

If  dreams  have  shaken  thee 
With  the  call  thou  canst  not  scorn, 

Let  Love  awaken  thee 
In  the  golden  porch  of  the  morn  ! 


The  rose  of  your  cheek  is  precious  ; 

Your  eyes  are  warmer  than  wine ; 
You  catch  men's  souls  in  the  meshes 

Of  curls  that  ripple  and  shine  — 
But,  ah !  not  mine. 

Your  lips  are  a  sweet  persuasion ; 

Your  bosom  a  sleeping  sea ; 
Four  voice,  with  its  fond  evasion, 

Is  a  call  and  a  charm  to  me  ; 
But  I  am  free  ! 

As  the  white  moon  lifts  the  waters, 
You  lift  the  passions,  and  lead  ; 

A.S  a  chieftainess  proud  with  slaughters, 
You  smile  on  the  hearts  that  bleed  : 
But  I  take  heed ! 


Come  to  me,  Lalage  ! 

Girl  of  the  flying  feet, 

Girl  of  the  tossing  hair 

And  the  red  mouth,  small  and  sweet 

Less  of  the  earth  than  air, 

So  witchingly  fond  and  fair, 

Lalage ! 

Touch  me,  Lalage ! 
Girl  of  the  soft  white  hand, 
Girl  of  the  low  white  brow 
And  the  roseate  bosom  band  ; 
Bloom  from  an  orchard  bough 
Less  downy-soft  than  thou, 
Lalage ! 

Kiss  me,  Lalage ! 

Girl  of  the  fragrant  breath, 

Girl  of  the  sun  of  May  ; 

As  a  bird  that  flutters  in  death, 

My  fluttering  pulses  say : 

If  thou  be  Death,  yet  stay, 

Lalao-e  ! 


What  if  I  couch  in  the  grass,  or  listlessly 

rock  on  the  waters  ? 
If  in  the  market  I  stroll,  sit  by  the  beak 
ers  of  wine  ? 
Witched  by  the  fold  of  a  cloud,  the  flush 

of  a  meadow  in  blossom, 
Soothed  by  the  amorous  airs,  touched 

by  the  lips  of  the  dew  ? 
First  must  be  color  and  odor,  the  simple, 

unmingled  sensation, 
Then,  at  the  end  of  the  year,  apples  and 

honey  and  grain. 
You,  reversing  the  order,  your  barren 

and  withering  branches 
Vainly  will  shake  in  the  winds,  mine 

hanging  heavy  with  gold  ! 


Though  thy  constant  love  I  share, 

Yet  its  gift  is  rarer ; 
In  my  youth  I  thought  thee  fair ; 

Thou  art  older  and  fairer  ! 

Full  of  more  than  young  delight 
Now  day  and  night  are  ; 

For  the  presence,  then  so  bright, 
Is  closer,  brighter. 

In  the  haste  of  youth  we  miss 
Its  best  of  blisses  : 


IMPROVISATIONS. 


197 


Sweeter  than  the  stolen  kiss 
Are  the  granted  kisses. 

Dearer  than  the  words  that  hide 

The  love  abiding, 
Are  the  words  that  fondly  chide, 

When  love  needs  chiding. 

Higher  than  the  perfect  song 
For  which  love  longeth, 

Is  the  tender  fear  of  wrong, 
That  never  wrongeth. 

She  whom  youth  alone  makes  dear 
May  awhile  seem  nearer  : 

Thou  art  mine  so  many  a  year, 
The  older,  the  dearer! 


A  grass-blade  is  my  warlike  lance, 

A  rose-leaf  is  my  shield  ; 
Beams  of  the  sun  are,  eveiy  one, 

My  chargers  for  the  field. 

The  morning  gives  me  golden  steeds, 
The  moon  gives  silver-white  ; 

The    stars    drop    down,    my    helm    to 

crown, 
When  I  go  forth  to  fight. 

Against  me  ride  in  iron  mail 

The  squadrons  of  the  foe : 
The  bucklers  flash,  the  maces  crash, 

The  haughty  trumpets  blow. 

One  touch,  and  all,  with  armor  cleft, 

Before  me  turn  and  yield. 
Straight  on  I  ride  :  the  world  is  wide  ; 

A  rose-leaf  is  my  shield  ! 

Then  dances  o'er  the  waterfall 

The  rainbow,  in  its  glee  ; 
The  daisy  sings,  the  lily  rings 

Her  bells  of  victory. 

So  am  I  armed  where'er  I  go, 
And  mounted  night  or  day : 

Who  shall  oppose  the  conquering  rose, 
And  who  the  sunbeam  slay  ? 


The  star  o'  the  morn  is  whitest, 
The  bosom  of  dawn  is  brightest ; 
The  dew  is  sown, 
And  the  blossom  blown 
WTierein  thou,  my  Dear,  delightest 


Hark,  I  have  risen  before  thee, 

That  the  spell  of  the  day  be  o'er  thee  ; 

That  the  flush  of  my  love 

May  fall  from  above, 
And,  mixed  with  the  morn,  adore  thee 

Dark  dreams  must  now  forsake  thee, 
And  the  bliss  of  thy  being  take  thee  !  - 

Let  the  beauty  of  morn 

In  thine  eyes  be  born, 
And  the  thought  of  me  awake  thee  ! 

Come  forth  to  hear  thy  praises, 
Which  the  wakening  world  upraises  ; 
Let  thy  hair  be  spun 
With  the  gold  o'  the  sun, 
And  thy  feet  be  kissed  by  the  daisies ! 


Near  in  the  forest 

I  know  a  glade ; 
Under  the  tree-tops 

A  secret  shade ! 

Vines  are  the  curtains, 
Blossoms  the  floor ; 

Voices  of  waters 
Sing  evermore. 

There,  when  the  sunset's 

Lances  of  gold 
Pierce,  or  the  moonlight 

Is  silvery  cold, 

Would  that  an  angel 

Led  thee  to  me  — 
So,  out  of  loneliness 

Love  should  be ! 

Never  the  breezes 

Should  lisp  what  we  say, 
Never  the  waters 

Our  secret  betray ! 

Silence  and  shadow, 
After,  might  reign ; 

But  the  old  life  be  ours 
Never  again ! 


What  if  we  lose  the  seasons 

That  seem  of  our  happiest  choice, 

That  Life  is  fuller  of  reasons 
To  sorrow  than  rejoice, 

That  Time  is  richer  in  treasons, 
And  Hope  has  a  faltering  voice  ? 


198 


LYRICS. 


The  dreams  wherewith  we  were  dovrered 
Were  gifts  of  an  ignorant  brain  ; 

The  truth  has  at  last  overpowered 
The  visions  we  clung  to  in  vain  : 

But  who  would  resist,  as  a  coward, 
The   knowledge   that    cometh    from 
pain? 

For  the  love,  as  a  flower  of  the  meadow, 
The  love  that  stands  firm  as  a  tree  — 

For  the   stars  that    have   vanished   in 

shadow, 
The  daylight,  enduring  and  free  — 

For  a  dream  of  the  dim  El  Dorado, 
A  world  to  inhabit  have  we  ! 


Heart,  in  my  bosom  beating 
Fierce,  as  a  power  at  bay ! 
Ever  thy  rote  repeating 
Louder,  and  then  retreating, 
Who  shall  thy  being  sway  ? 

Over  my  will  and  under, 

Equally  king  and  slave, 
Sometimes  I  hear  thee  thunder, 
Sometimes  falter  and  blunder 
Close  to  the  waiting  grave  ! 

Oft,  in  the  beautiful  season, 

Restless  thou  art,  and  wild ; 
Oft,  with  never  a  reason, 
Turnest  and  doest  me  treason, 
Treating  the  man  as  a  child  ! 

Cold,  when  passion  is  burning, 
Quick,  when  I  sigh  for  rest, 
Kindler  of  perished  yearning, 
Curb  and  government  spurning, 
Thou  art  lord  of  the  breast ! 


fcVll,  for  we  drink  to  Labor  ! 

And  Labor,  you  know,  is  Prayer : 
I  '11  be  as  grand  as  my  neighbor 
Abroad,  and  at  home  as  bare  ! 
Debt,  and  bother,  and  hurry  ! 

Others  are  burdened  so  : 
Here  's  to  the  goddess  Worry, 
And  here  's  to  the  goddess  Show  ! 

Reckless  of  what  comes  after, 

Silent  of  whence  we  come  : 
Splendor  and  feast  and  laughter 

Make  the  questioners  dumb. 


Debt,  and  bother,  and  hurry! 

Nobody  needs  to  know : 
Here  's  to  the  goddess  Worry, 

And  here 's  to  the  goddess  Show 

Fame  is  what  you  have  taken, 
Character 's  what  you  give  : 
When  to  this  truth  you  waken, 
Then  you  begin  to  live ! 
Debt,  and  bother,  and  hurry! 

Others  have  risen  so  : 
Here  's  to  the  goddess  Worry, 
And  here  's  to  the  goddess  Show! 

Honor 's  a  thing  for  derision, 
Knowledge  a  thing  reviled  ; 
Love  is  a  vanishing  vision, 
Faith  is  the  toy  of  a  child  ! 
Debt,  and  bother,  and  hurry  ! 

Honesty  's  old  and  slow : 
Here  's  to  the  goddess  Worry, 
And  here  's  to  the  goddess  Show  ! 


MARIGOLD. 

HOMELY,  forgotten  flower, 
Under  the  rose's  bower, 

Plain  as  a  weed, 
Thou,  the  half-summer  long, 
Waitest  and  waxest  strong, 
Even  as  waits  a  song 

Till  men  shall  heed. 

Then,  when  the  lilies  die, 
And  the  carnations  lie 

In  spicy  death, 
Over  thy  bushy  sprays 
Burst  with  a  sudden  blaze 
Stars  of  the  August  days, 

With  Autumn's  breath. 

Fain  would  the  calyx  hold  ; 
But  splits,  and  half  the  gold 

Spills  lavishly  : 
Frost,  that  the  rose  appalls, 
Wastes  not  thy  coronals, 
Till  Summer's  lustre  falls 

And  fades  in  thee. 


WILL  AND  LAW. 

WIIVL,  in  his  lawless  mirth, 

Cried  :  "  Mine  be  the  sphere  of  Eart'a 


THE   IMP   OF   SPRING-TIME. 


199 


Mine  be  the  hills  and  seas, 
Night  calm  and  morning  breeze, 
Shadowed  and  sun-lit  hours, 
Passions,  delights,  and  powers, 
Each  in  its  turn  to  choose, 
All  to  reject  or  use  — 
Thus  myself  to  fulfil, 
For  I  am  Will !  " 

Nature,  with  myriad  mouth, 
Answered  from  North  and  South : 
"  Hack  to  thy  nest  again, 
Dream  of  the  idle  brain  ! 
Eyes  shall  open,  and  see 
Power  attained  through  me  : 
Mine  the  increasing  days, 
Mine  the  delight  that  stays, 
Service  from  each  to  draw  — 
For  I  am  Law  !  " 


TRUE  LOVE'S  TIME  OF  DAY. 

WHEN  shall  I  find  you,  sweetheart, 
That  shall  be  and  must  be  mine  ? 

I  seek,  though  the  world  divides  us. 
And  I  send  you  the  secret  sign. 

There  'a  blood   in   the   veins  of  morn 
ing, 

So  fresh  it  may  well  deceive, 
When  man  goes  forth  as  Adam, 

And  woman  awaits  him  as  Eve. 

There 's  an  elvish  spell  in  twilight 
When  the  bats  of  Fancy  fly, 

And  sense  is  bound  by  a  question, 
And  Fate  by  the  quick  reply. 

And  the  moon  is  an  old  enchantress, 
With    her   snares   of    glimmer   and 
shade, 

That  have  ever  been  false  and  fatal 
Tc  the  dreams  of  man  and  maid. 

But   I'll   meet  you  at  noonday,  sweet 
heart, 

In  the  billowy  fields  of  grain, 
When  the  sun  is  hot  for  harvest, 

And  the  roses  athirst  for  rain. 

With  the  daylight's  truth  on  your  fore 
head, 
And    the    daylight's    love    in    your 

eye, 

I  '11  kiss  you  without  a  question, 
And  you  '11  kiss  me  without  reply. 


YOUTH. 

CHILD  with  the  butterfly, 
Boy  with  the  ball, 

Youth  with  the  maiden  — 
Still  I  am  all. 

Wisdom  of  manhood 
Keeps  the  old  joy  ; 

Conquered  illusions 
Leave  me  a  boy. 

Falsehood  and  bareness 
Teach  me  but  this  : 

Earth  still  is  beautiful, 
Being  is  bliss. 

Locks  to  my  temples 
Hoary  may  cling ; 

'T  is  but  as  daisies 

On  meadows  of  spring. 


THE  IMP  OF  SPRING-TIME. 

OVER  the  eaves  where  the  sunbeams  fall 

Twitters  the  swallow ; 
I  hear  from  the  mountains  the  cataract 
call: 

Follow,  oh,  follow  ! 

Buds  on  the  bushes  and  blooms  on  the 

mead 

Swiftly  are  swelling ; 
Hark  !  the  Spring  whispereth  :  "  Make 

ye  with  speed 
Ready  my  dwelling." 

Out  of  the  tremulous  blue  of  the  air 

Calling  before  her, 

Who  was  it  bade  me  "Awake  and  pre 
pare, 

Thou  mine  adorer  ! " 

"  Leave  me,"  I  said ;  "  I  have  known 

thee  of  old, 
Love  the  annoyer. 
Arming,  at  last,  with  thine  arrows  of 

gold, 
Time,  the  Destroyer." 

"  Follow,"  he  laughed,  "  where  the  blisa 

of  the  earth 

Wooes  thee,  compellirg; 
Yet  in  the  Spring,  and  her  thousandfold 

birth, 
I,  too,  am  dwelling." 


200 


LYRICS. 


Out  of  the  buds  he  was  peeping,  and 

sang 

Soft  with  the  swallow ; 
Tea,  and  he  called  where  the  cataract 

sprang : 
Follow,  oh,  follow ! 

Vain  to  defy,  or  evade,  or,  in  sooth, 

Bid  him  to  leave  me  ! 
But  his  deception  is  dearer  than  truth  : 

Let  him  deceive  me  ! 


CANOPUS. 

A    LEAP    FROM    THE   PAST. 

ABOVE  the  palms,  the  peaks  of  pearly 

gray 
That   hang,  like  dreams,  along    the 

slumbering  skies, 

An  urn  of  fire  that  never  burns  away, 
I  see  Canopus  rise. 

An  urn  of  light,  a  golden-hearted  torch, 
Voluptuous,    drowsy-throbbing    mid 

the  stars, 

As,  incense-fed,  from  Aphrodite's  porch 
Lifted,  to  beacon  Mars. 

Is  it  from  songs  and  stories  of  the  Past, 
With  names  and   scenes  that  make 

our  planet  fair,  — 
From  Babylonian  splendors,  vague  and 

vast, 
And  flushed  Arabian  air  :  — 

Or  sprung  from  richer  longings  of  the 

brain 

And  spices  of  the  blood,  this  hot  desire 
To  lie  beneath  that  mellow  lamp  again 
And  breathe  its  languid  fire  ? 

From  tales   of  nights  when   watching 

David  saw 
Its  amorous  ray  on  bright  Bathsheba's 

head ; 
Or  Charmian  stole,  the  golden  gauze  to 

draw 
Round  Cleopatra's  bed  ? 

Of  when  white-breasted  Paris  touched 

the  lone 
Laconian  isle,  where  stayed  his  flying 

oars, 
And  Helen  breathed  the  scent  of  violets, 

blown 
Along  the  bosky  shores  ? 


Or      Kalidasa's      maiden,     wandering 

through 
The   moonlit   jungles   of  the  Indian 

lands, 
While  shamed  mimosas  from  her  form 

withdrew 
Their  thin  and  trembling  hands  ? 

For  Fancy  takes  from  Passion  power  to 

build 
A     brighter     fane     than     bloodless 

Thought  decrees, 
And  loves  to  see  its  spacious  chambers 

tilled 
With  tropic  tapestries. 

And,  past  those  halls  which  for  itself 

the  mind 
Builds,  permanent  as  marble,  and  as 

cold, 

In  warm  surprises  of  the  blood  we  find 
The  sumptuous  dream  unfold  ! 

There  shines  the    leaf  and   bursts  the 

blossom  sheath 

On  hills  deep-mantled  in  eternal  June, 
Or  wave   their  whispering   silver,   un 
derneath 
The  rainbow-cinctured  moon. 

Around    the   pillars    of    the   palm-tree 

bower 
The  orchids  cling,  in  rose  and  purple 

spheres ; 
Shield-broad    the  lily  floats ;   the   aloe 

flower 
Foredates  its  hundred  years. 

Along  the  lines  of  coral,  white  and  warm 
Breaks  the  white  surf ;  hushed  is  the 

glassy  air, 
And  only  mellower  murmurs  tell  thai 

storm 
Is  raging  otherwhere. 

The   mansion  gleams   with   dome  auQ 

arch  Moresque  — 

Ah,  bliss  to  lie  beside  the  jasper  urn 
Of  founts,  and  through  the  open  ara 

besque 
To  watch  Canopus  burn  ! 

To  sit  at  feasts,  and  fluid  odors   Irain 
Of  daintiest  nectar  that,  from  grape 

is  caught, 
While    faint  narcotics   cheat   the    idl» 

brain 
With  phantom  shapes  of  tuought ; 


CUPIDO. 


201 


Or,  listening   to   the   sweet,   seductive 

voice, 
No  will  hath  silenced,  since  the  world 

began, 
To  weigh  delight  unchallenged,  making 

choice 
Of  earlier  joys  of  m;m  ! 

Permit  the  dream  :  our  natures  twofold 

are. 

Sense  hath  its  own  ideals,  which  pre 
pare 
A  rosy  background  for  the  soul's  white 

star, 
Whereon  it  shines  more  fair. 

Not  crystal  runs,  dissolved  from  mount 
ain  snow, 
The  poet's  blood ;  but  amber,  musk, 

impart 
Their  scents,  and  gems  their  orbed  or 

shivered  glow, 
To  feed  his  tropic  heart. 

While  Form  and  Color  undivorced  re 
main 

In  every  planet  gilded  by  the  sun, 
His  craft  shall  forge  the  radiant  mar 
riage-chain 

That  makes  them  purely  One ! 
188ft. 


CUPIDO. 

THE  REVIVAL  OP  AN  ANTIQUATED 
FIGURE,  AFTER  READING  THE  VIEWS 
OF  CERTAIN  WOMEN  ON  MARRIAGE 
AND  DIVORCE. 

I. 

ROSEATE  darling, 
Dimpled  with  laughter, 
Nursed  on  the  bosom 
Pierced  by  thee  after ; 
Fed  with  the  rarest 
Milk  of  the  fairest 
Fond  Aphrodite, 

Clhild   as  thou  art,  as  a  god  thou  art 
mighty  ! 


Thou  art  the  only 
Demigod  left  us  ; 
Fate  hath  bereft  us, 
Science  made  lonely. 
Visions  and  fables 
Shrink  from  our  portals ; 


Long  have  we  banished 
The  stately  Immortals ; 
Yet,  when  we  sent  them 
Trooping  to  Hades  — 
Olympian  gentlemen, 
Paphian  ladies  — 
Thou  hadst  re-risen, 
Ere  the  dark  prison 
Closed  for  the  last  time, 
Slipped  from  the  gate  and  returned  to 
thy  pastime ! 


Ever  a  mystery, 
All  of  our  history 
Brightens  with  thee ! 
Systems  have  chained  us, 
Rulers  restrained  us, 
Fortune  disdained  us, 
Still  thou  wert  free  ! 
Lofty  or  lowly, 
Brutish  or  holy, 
Spacious  or  narrow, 
Never  a  life  was  secure  from  thy  arrow ! 


Ah,  but  they  've  told  us 
Love  is  a  system  ! 
They  would  withhold  ns 
When  we  have  kissed  him  ! 
All  that  perplexes 
Sweetly  the  sexes 
They  would  control, 
And  with  Affinity 
Drive  the  Divinity 
Out  of  the  soul  ! 
Better,  they  say,  is 
Phryne  or  Lais 
Than  the  immutable 
Faith,  and  its  suitable 
Vow,  he  hath  taught  us  • 
Foolish  the  tender 
Pang,  the  surrender, 
When  he  has  caught  us ; 
Fancies  and  fetters  are  all  he  has  brought 


Future  parental, 
Physical,  mental 
Laws  they  prescribe  us  ; 
And  with  ecstatic 
Strict  mathematic 
Blisses  would  bribe  us. 
Alkali,  acid, 
They  with  a  placid 


202 


LYRICS. 


Mien  would  unite, 
And  the  wild  rapture 
Of  chasing  and  capture 
Curb  with  a  right ; 
Measuring,  dealing 
Even  the  kiss  oi'  the  twilight  of  feeling  ! 


Who  shall  deliver 
Thee  from  their  credo  ? 
Rent  is  thy  quiver, 
Darling  Cupido  ! 
Naked,  yet  blameless, 
Tricksily  aimless, 
Secretly  sure, 
Who,  then,  thy  plighting, 
Wilful  uniting, 
Now  will  endure  ? 
Now,  when  experiment 
Based  upon  Science 
Sets  at  defiance, 
Harshly,  thy  merriment, 
Who  shall  caress  thee 
Warm  in  his  bosom,  and  bliss  thee  and 
bless  thee  ? 


Ever  't  is  May-time  ! 
Ever  't  is  play-time 
Of  Beauty  and  Youth  ! 
Freed  from  confusion, 
Hides  in  illusion 
Nature  her  truth. 
Books  and  discourses, 
What  can  they  tell  us  ? 
Blood  with  its  forces 
Still  will  compel  us  ! 
Cold  ones  may  fly  to 
Systems,  or  try  to  ; 
Innocent  fancy 
Still  will  enwind  us, 
Love's  necromancy, 
Snare  us  and  bind  us, 
Systems  and  rights  lie  forgotten  behind 
us. 


THE  VOICES   OF  ROME. 


BEE,  from  the  tower   of   the   Capitol, 

looking  abroad, 

Ru:n  on  ruin,  the  bones  of  the  skele 
ton  spread  ! 


Pecked  through  the  ages  by  vultures  of 

force  and  of  fraud, 
Spoiled  by  the  warrior,  crushed  by 

the  hierarch's  tread. 
Build,  if  thou  canst,  the  unlimited  splen 
dors  again, 
Pillar  and  architrave   back  to  their 

places  restore : 
So  to  confess  that  the  effort  of  fancy  is 

vain, — 

Though  it  has  been,  yet  it  can  be  no 
more ! 


Behold  !  the  ages  cannot  trust  us 

With    even    the    records    meant    to 

last: 
Is  this  the  home  of  that  Augustus 

Whose   throne   upiore   the    splendid 

past  1 
Of  all  the  triumphs,  the  orations, 

The  wealth,  is  nothing  left  but  these, 
Which  tell  of  old  abominations, 

Of  treacheries  and  tyrannies  ? 


Here,  like  an  Emperor,  rideth  Aureliua 

still ; 

There,  in  unperishing  marble,  Tibe 
rius  stands  : 
Rome  and  her  Caesars  extend  from  the 

sovereign  hill 
Sceptre  of  rule,  and  their  spirits  yet 

govern  the  lands  ! 
What  are  the  shrines  which,  usurping 

their  temples,  arise 
Over  the  altars  of  gods,  but  the  shadow 

of  theirs  1 

Mimicking  incense  and  sacrifice,  cloud 
ing  the  skies, 

Bright  with  old  deities,  thus  with  con 
fusion  of  prayers ! 


The  fern  o'erhangs  the  ancient  altar, 

The  ivy  drapes  the  ruined  shrine, 
Yet   Faith   remains  though  fancy  fal 
ter, 

And    loss   of    gods    makes    men   di 
vine. 
Pure  as  the  sunshine,  and  as  fervent, 

Our  truth  the  stately  wreck  illumes 
Aud  not  as  ruler,  but  as  servant, 

We  call  the  Past  from  all  its  tombs. 


PANDORA. 


203 


Delve,  as  ye  may,  for  the  fragments  of 

Art  that  has  died, 
Fragments  they  are  of  a  beauty  ye 

cannot  recall ; 
Down  from  the  loneliest  column  that 

still  doth  abide, 

Graces  unknown  to  the  following  cent 
uries  fall. 
Take  from  the  ruin  and  cleanse  from 

the  mould  of  decay 
Statue  or  torso  or   bust,  and   exalt 

them  as  yours : 
Yours  are  the  fugitive  triumphs,  the  art 

of  a  day,  — 

Theirs  are  the  beauty  and  strength 
that  forever  endures ! 


Ah,  hark  !  't  is  yet  the  undying  Siren 

Who  sings  more  sweetly  than  of  old, 
To  make  us  feel  our  days  are  iron 

Beside  the  perished  days  of  gold  : 
But  Beauty  now,  no  more  an  exile 

From  common   hearths  and  humble 

homes, 
Assumes  new  being,  warm  and  flexile, 

And  is  the  world's,  not  merely  Rome's ! 


Ah,    from    the    pinnacle,  ne'er   to  be 

mounted  again, 
Mock  us  the  grandeurs  august  of  the 

past  that  has  fled  ! 
Valor  and  sacrifice,  triumph  of   heart 

and  of  brain, 
Wealth  of  the  world,  and  its  life  — 

and  our  ages  are  dead  ! 
Weak  is  the  hand  of  the  race,  and  its 

courage  but  faint, 
Slow  is  the  spirit  creative  that  once 

was  so  bold ; 
All    our    achievement   a   shadow,   that 

echoes  complaint 

Since  we  are  lorn  of  the  grace  and 
the  glory  of  old  ! 


No  more  in  brief,  inconstant  flashes, 
We  hail  the  fitful  dawn  of  truth, 

Our  feet  on  many  an  Empire's  ashes, 
We  feel  the  world's  eternal  youth. 

On  firmer  than  the  old  foundations 
We  base  the  promise  of  our  fate, 


And  take  the  wr°ck  of  crumbled  na^ 

tions 

To  build  an  everlasting  State. 
ROME,  March  26, 1868. 

PANDORA. 

ITALY,  loved  of  the  sun, 

Wooed  of  the  sweet  winds  and  wed  by 

the  sea, 

When,  since  the  nations  begun, 
Was  other  inheritance  like  unto  thee* 

Splendors  of  sunshine  and  snows 
Flash  from  thy  peaks  to  thy  bath  in  the 

brine ; 

Thine  are  the  daisy  and  rose, 
The  grace  of  the  palm  and  the  strength 

of  the  pine  : 

Orchard  and  harvested  plain  ; 

Lakes,  by  the  touch  of  the  tempest  un 
stirred  ; 

Dells  whi're  the  Dryads  remain, 

And  mountains  that  rise  to  a  music  un 
heard  1 

Generous  gods,  at  thy  birth, 

Heaped   on   thy   cradle  with   prodigal 

hand 

Gifts,  and  the  darling  of  earth 
Art  thon,  and  wast  ever,  O  ravishing 

land  ! 

Strength  from  the  Thunderer  came, 
Pride  from  the  goddess  that  governs  hia 

board ; 

While,  in  his  forges  of  flame, 
Hephaestus  attempered  thine  armor  and 

sword. 

Lo  !  Aphrodite  her  zone, 
Winning  all  love  to  thy  loveliness,  gave ; 
Leaving  her  Paphian  throne 
To    breathe    on    thy    mountains    and 
brighten  thy  wave. 

Bacchus  the  urns  of  his  wine 

Gave,  and   the  festivals  crowning  thy 

toil  ; 

Ceres,  the  mother  divine, 
Bestowed  on  thee  bounties  of  corn  and 

of  oil. 

Phoebus  the  songs  that  inspire, 
Caught  from  the  airs  of  Olympus,  con 
ferred  ; 


204 


LYRICS. 


Hermes,  the  sweetness  and  fire 
That  pierce  in  the  charm  of  the  eloquent 
word. 

So  were  thy  graces  complete  ; 

Yea,  and,  though  ruined,  they  fascinate 

now : 

Beautiful  still  are  thy  feet, 
And  girt  with  the  gold  of  lost  lordship 

thy  brow. 

SORRENTO. 


THE  gods  are  gone,  the  temples  over 
thrown, 
The  storms  of  time  the  very  rocks 

have  shaken  : 
The  Past  is  mute,   save   where  some 

mouldy  stone 
Speaks  to  confuse,  like  speech  by  age 

o'ertaken. 

The  pomp  that  crowned  the  wind 
ing  shore 

Has  fled  for  evermore  : 
Its  old  magnificence  shall  never  re 
awaken. 


Where  once,  against  the  Grecian  ships 

arrayed, 
The  Oscan  warriors  saw  their  javelins 

hurtle, 
The  farmer  prunes  his  olives,  and  the 

maid 
Trips  down  the  lanes  in  flashing  vest 

and  kirtle : 

The  everlasting  laurel  now 
Forgets  Apollo's  brow, 
And,   dedicate    no    more   to   Venus, 
blooms  the  myrtle. 


Yet  still,  as  long  ago,  when  this  high 

coast 
Phoenician  strangers  saw,  and  flying 

Dardans, 
The  bounteous  earth  fulfils  her  ancient 

boast 
In  mellow  fields  which  Winter  never 

hardens ; 

And  daisy,  lavender,  and  rose 
Perpetual  buds  unclose, 
To  flood  with  endless  balm  the  tiers 
of  hanging  gardens. 


From  immemorial  rocks  the  daffodil 
Beckons   with   scented  stars,  an  un- 

reached  wonder : 

On   sunny  banks  their  wine   the   hya 
cinths  spill, 

And  self-betraying  violets  bloom  there 
under ; 
While  near  and  threatening,  dim 

and  deep, 

The  wave  assails  the  steep, 
Or  booms  in  hollow  caves  with  sound 
of  smothered  thunder. 


Here  Nature,  dropping  once  her  ordered 

plan, 
Fashioned  all  lovely  things  that  most 

might  please  her  — 
A  playground  guarded  from  the  greed 

of  man, 
The    childish    gauds,    wherewith   he 

would  appease  her : 
Her  sweetest  air,  her  softest  wave 
Reluctantly  she  gave 
To  grace  the  wealth  of  Rome,  to  heal 
the  languid  Caesar. 


She  stationed  there  Vesuvius,  to  be 
Contrasted   horror  to   her  idyl   ten 
der  : 

Across  the  azure  pavement  of  the  sea 
She  raised  a  cape  for  Baiaee's  marble 

splendor ; 

And  westward,  on  the  circling  zone, 
To  front  the  seas  unknown, 
She  planted  Capri's  couchant  lion  to 
defend  her. 


A   mother   kind,   she   doth  but  tanta 
lize  : 
Nor  from  her  secret  gardens  will  she 

spurn  us. 
The    Roman,    casting    hitherward    his 

eyes, 

Forgot  his  Sybaris  beside  Volturnus  — 
Forgot    the    streams    and    sylvan 

charms 

That  decked  his  Sabiue  farms, 
And  orchards  on  the  slopes  that  sink 
to  still  Avernus. 


THE   TWO   GREETINGS. 


205 


Here  was  his  substance  wasted  :  here  he 

lost 
The  marrow  that  subdued  the  world, 

in  leisure ; 
Counting  no  days  that  weie  not  feasts, 

no  cost 
Too  dear  to  purchase  finer  forms  of 

pleasure ; 

Yet,  while  for  him  stood  still  the  sun, 
The  restless  world  rolled  on, 
And  shook  from  off  its  skirts  Csesar  and 
Caesar's  treasure. 


Less  than  he  sought  will  we :  a  moon  of 

peace, 

To  feed  the  mind  on  Fancy's  airy  diet ; 
Soft  airs  that  come  like  memories  of 

Greece, 
Nights  that  renew  the  old  Phoenician 

quiet : 

Escape  from  yonder  burning  crest 
That  stirs  with  new  unrest, 
And  in  its  lava-streams  keeps  hot  the 
endless  riot. 


Here,  from  the  wars  of  Gaul,  the  strife 

of  Rome, 
May  we,   meek   citizens,   a  summer 

screen  us : 
Here  find  with  milder  Earth  a  perfect 

home, 
Once,  ere  she  puts  profounder  rest 

between  us : 

Here  break  the  sacred  laurel  bough 
Still  for  Apollo's  brow, 
And  bind  the  myrtle  buds  to  crown  a 
purer  Venus. 


THE  TWO   GREETINGS. 
I.  —  SALVE  ! 

SCARCE  from  the  void  of  shadows  taken, 
We  hail  thine  opening  eyelids,  boy! 

Be  welcome  to  the  world  !     Awaken 
To  strength  and  beauty,  and  to  joy ! 

Within  those  orbs  of  empty  wonder 
Let  life  its  starry  fires  increase, 

And  curve  those  tender  lips  asunder 
With  faintest  smiles  of  baby  peace . 


Sealed  in  their  buds,  the  beauteous  senses 
Shall  gladden  thee  as  they  unfold : 

With  soft  allurements,  stern  defences, 
Thy  riper  being  they  shall  mould. 

Far-eyed  desires  and  hopes  unbounded 
Within  thy  narrow  nest  are  furled  : 

Behold,  for  thee  how  fair  is  rounded 
The  circle  of  the  sunlit  world  ! 

The  oceans  and  the  winds  invite  thee, 
The  peopled  lands  thy  coming  wait  : 

No  wreck  nor  storm  shall  long  affright 

thee, 
For  all  are  parts  of  thine  estate. 

Advance  to  every  triumph  wrested 
By  plough  and  pencil,  pen  and  sword, 

For,  with  thy  robes  of  action  vested, 
Though  slaves  be  others,  thou  art 
lord! 

Thy  breath  be  love,  thy  growth  be  duty 
To  end  in  peace  as  they  began  : 

Pre-human  in  thy  helpless  beauty, 
Become  more  beautiful,  as  Man  1 


II.  —  VALE  ! 

Now  fold    thy  rich  experience  round 

thee, 

To  shield  therewith  the  sinking  heart : 
The  sunset-gold  of  Day  hath  crowned 

thee  : 
The  dark  gate  opens,  —  so  depart  ! 

What  growth  the  leafy  years  could  ren 
der 

No  more  into  its  bud  returns ; 
It  clothes  thee  still  with  faded  splendor 

As  banks  are  clothed  by  autumn  ferns. 

All  spring  could  dream  or  summer  fash 
ion, 

If  ripened,  or  untimely  cast, 
The  harvest  of  thy  toil  and  passion  — 

Thy  sheaf  of  life  —  is  bound  at  last. 

What  scattered  ears  thy  field  encloses, 
What  tares  unweeded,  now  behold  ; 

And  here  the  poppies,  there  the  roses, 
Send  withered  fragrance  through  the 
gold. 

Lo  !  as  thou  earnest,  so  thou  goest, 
F-om  bright  Unknown  to  bright  Un 
known, 


206 


LYRICS. 


Save  that  the  light  thou  forward  throw- 

est, 
Was  fainter  then  behind  thee  thrown. 

Again  be  glad !  through  tears  and  laugh 
ter, 

And  deed  and  failure,  thou  art  strong : 
Thy  Here  presages  thy  Hereafter, 
And   neither    sphere    shall    do    thee 
wrong ! 

To  mother-breasts  of  nurture  fonder 
Go,   child  !  —  once  more  in    beauty 
young : 

And  lie;vr  our  Vale !  echoed  yonder 
As  Salve !  in  a  sweeter  tongue  ! 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER^ 

LEARN  to  live,  and  live  to  learn, 
Ignorance  like  a  fire  doth  burn, 
Little  tasks  make  large  return. 

In  thy  labors  patient  be, 
Afterward,  released  and  free, 
Nature  will  be  bright  to  thee. 

Toil,  when  willing,  groweth  less ; 
"Always  play  "  may  seem  to  bless, 
Yet  the  end  is  weariness. 

Live  to  learn,  and  learn  to  live, 
Only  this  content  can  give  ; 
Reckless  joys  are  fugitive  ! 


A  LOVER'S  TEST. 

I  SAT  to-day  beneath  the  pine 
And  saw  the  long  lake  shine. 

The  wind  was  weary,  and  the  day 
Sank  languidly  away 

Behind  the  forest's  purple  rim: 
rThe  sun  was  fair  for  me,  I  lived  for  him ! 

I  did  not  miss  you.     All  was  sweet, 
Sky,  earth,  and  soul  complete 

In  harmony,  which  could  afford 
No  more,  nor  spoil  the  chord. 

Could  I  be  blest,  and  you  afar, 
Were  other  I,  or  you,  than  what  we  are  1 

The  sifted  silver  of  the  night 
Rained  down  a  strange  delight ; 

The  moon's  moist  beams  on  meadows 

made 
Pale  bars  athwart  the  shade, 


And  murmurs  crept  from  tree  to  tree, 
Mysterious  whispers  —  not  from  you  to 
me ! 

I  stirred  the  embers,  roused  the  brand 
And  mused  :  on  either  hand 

The  pedigree  of  human  thought 
Sang,  censured,  cheered,  or  taught. 

Pausing  at  each  Titanic  line, 
I  caught  no  echo  of  your  soul  to  mine  ! 

At  last,  when  life  recast  its  form 

To  passive  rest  and  warm, 
Ere  the  soft,  lingering  senses  cease 

In  sleep's  half-conscious  peace, 
The  wish  I  might  have  fashioned  died 
In  dreams  that  never  brought  you  to  my 
side ! 

Farewell !  my  nature's  highest  stress 

Mine  equal  shall  possess. 
'T  is  easier  to  renounce,  or  wait, 

Haply,  the  perfect  fate. 
My  coldness  is  the  haughty  fire 
That  naught  consumes   except  its  full 
desire ! 


A  FRIEND'S  GREETING. 

TO    J.    G.    WHITTIER,    FOR    HIS     SEVEN 
TIETH   BIRTHDAY. 

SNOW-BOUND  for  earth,  but  summer- 

souled  for  thee, 
Thy  natal  morning  shines  : 
Hail,  Friend  and  Poet.     Give  thy  hand 

to  me, 
And  let  me  read  its  lines  ! 

For  skilled  in  Fancy's  palmistry  am  I, 
When  years  have  set  their  crown  ; 

When  Life  gives  light  to  read  its  secrets 

by, 
And  deed  explains  renown. 

So,  looking  backward  from  thy  seven 

tieth  year 

On  service  grand  and  free, 
The   pictures  of  thy  spirit's  Past  ar& 

clear, 
And  each  interprets  thee. 

I  see  thee,  first,  on  hills  our  Aryan  sirca 
In  Time's  lost  morning  knew, 

Kindling,  as  priest,  the  lonely  altar-fire* 
That  from  Earth's  darkness  grew. 


PEACH-BLOSSOM. 


207 


Then,  wise  with  secrets  ot   Chaldaean 

lore, 

In  high  Akkadian  fane  ; 
Or  pacing-  slow  by  Egypt's  river-shore, 
In  Thothmes'  glorious  reign. 

•* 
I  hear  thee,  wroth  with  all  iniquities 

That  Judah's  kings  betrayed, 
Preach  from  Ain-Jidi's  rock  thy  God's 

decrees, 
Or  Mainre's  terebinth  shade. 

And,  ah! — most  piteous  vision  of  the 
Past, 

Drawn  by  thy  being's  law, 
I  see  thee,  martyr,  in  the  arena  cast, 

Beneath  the  lion's  paw. 

Yet,  afterwards,  how  rang   thy  sword 

upon 

The  Payiiim  helm  and  shield  ! 
How  shone  with  Godfrey,  and  at  Aska- 

lon, 
Thy  white  plume  o'er  the  field  ! 

Strange     contradiction  !  —  where     the 

sand-waves  spread 
The  boundless  desert  sea, 
The  Bedouin  spearmen  found  their  des 
tined  head, 
Their  dark-eyed  chief  —  in  thee  ! 

And  thou  wert  friar  in  Cluny's  saintly 

cell, 

And  Skald  by  Norway's  foam, 
Ere  fate  of   Poet   fixed    thy   soul,   to 

dwell 
In  this  New  England  home. 

Here  art  thou  Poet,  —  more  than  warrior, 
priest ; 

And  here  thy  quiet  years 
Yield  more  to  us  than  sacrifice  or  feast, 

Or  clash  of  swords  or  spears. 

The  faith  that   lifts,  the  courage  that 

sustains, 

These  thou  wert  sent  to  teach  : 
Hot  blood    of    battle,   beating    in    thy 

veins, 
Is  turned  to  gentle  speech 

Not  less,  but  more,  than  others  hast  thou 

striven ; 

Thy  victories  remain  : 
The  scars  of  ancient  hate,  long  since  for 
given, 
Have  lost  their  power  to  pain. 


Apostle  pure  of  Freedom  and  of  Right, 
Thou  had'st  thy  one  reward  : 

Thy   prayers   were   heard,  and  flashed 

upon  thy  sight 
The  Comiug  of  the  Lord ! 

Now,  sheathed  in  myrtle  of  thy  tender 

songs, 

Slumbers  the  blade  of  truth ; 
But  Age's  wisdom,  crowning  thee,  pro 
longs 
The  eager  hope  of  Youth ! 

Another  line  upon  thy  hand  I  trace, 

All  destinies  above : 
Men  know  thee  most  as  one  that  loves 
his  race, 

And  bless  thee  with  their  love ' 


PEACH-BLOSSOM. 


NIGHTLY  the  hoar-frost  freezes 
The  young  grass  of  the  field, 
Nor  yet  have  blander  breezes 

The  buds  of  the  oak  unsealed  : 
Not  yet  pours  out  the  pine 
His  airy  resinous  wine  ; 
But  over  the  southern  slope, 
In  the  heat  and  hurry  of  hope, 
The  wands  of  the  peach-tree  first 
Into  rosy  beauty  burst : 
A  breath,  and  the  sweet  buds  ope ! 
A  day,  and  the  orchards  bare, 
Like  maids  in  haste  to  be  fair, 
Lightly  themselves  adorn 
With  a  scarf  the  Spring  at  the  door 
Has  sportively  flung  before, 
Or  a  stranded  cloud  of  the  morn  ! 


What  spirit  of  Persia  cometh 

And  saith  to  the  buds,  "  Unclose ! " 

Ere  ever  the  first  bee  hummeth, 
Or  woodland  wild  flower  blows  ? 

What  prescient  soul  in  the  sod 

Garlands  each  barren  rod 

With  fringes  of  bloom  that  speak 

Of  the  baby's  tender  breast, 

And  the  boy's  pure  lip  impressed, 

And  the  pink  of  the  maiden's  cheek  f 

The  swift,  keen  Orient  so 

Prophesies  as  of  old, 

While  the  apple's  blood  is  cold, 

Jlememberimr  the  suow. 


208 


LYRICS. 


Afar,  through  the  mellow  hazes 
Where  the  dreams  of  June  are  stayed, 

The  hills,  in  their  vanishing  mazes, 
Carry  the  flush,  and  fade  ! 

Southward  they  fall,  and  reach 

To  the  bay  and  the  ocean  beach, 

Where  the  soft,  half-Syrian  air 

Blows  from  the  Chesapeake's 

lulets  and  coves  and  creeks 

On  the  fields  of  Delaware  ! 

And  the  rosy  lakes  of  flowers, 

That  here  alone  are  ours, 

Spread  into  seas  that  pour 

Billow  and  spray  of  pink 

Even  to  the  blue  wave's  brink, 

All  down  the  Eastern  Shore  ! 


Pain,  Doubt,  and  Death  are  over  ! 

Who  thinks,  to-day,  of  toil  ? 
The  fields  are  certain  of  clover, 

The  gardens  of  wine  and  oil. 
What  though  the  sap  of  the  North 
Drowsily  peereth  forth 
In  the  orchards,  and  still  delays  ? 
The  peach  and  the  poet  know 
Under  the  chill  the  glow, 
And  the  token  of  golden  days  ! 


What  fool,  to-day,  would  rather 

In  Wintry  memories  dwell  ? 
What  miser  reach  to  gather 

The  fruit  these  boughs  foretell  ? 
No,  no  !  —  the  heart  has  room 
For  present  joy  alone, 
Light  shed  and  sweetness  blown, 
For  odor  and  color  and  bloom  ! 
As  the  earth  in  the  sinning  sky, 
Our  lives  in  their  own  bliss  lie  ; 
Whatever  is  taught  or  told, 
However  men  moan  and  sigh, 
Love  never  shall  grow  cold, 
And  Life  shall  never  die  ! 

ASSYRIAN  NIGHT-SONG. 

i. 

THERE  is  naught,  on  either  hand, 
But  the  moon  upon  the  sand. 
Pale  and  glimmering,  far  and  dim, 
To  the  Desert's  utmost  rim, 
Flows  the  inundating  light 


Over  all  the  lands  of  Night. 
Bel,  the  burning  lord,  has  fled : 
In  her  blue,  uncurtained  bed, 
Ishtar,  bending  from  above, 
Seeks  her  Babylonian  love. 
Silver-browed,  forever  fair, 
Goddess  of  the  dusky  hair 
And  the  jewel-sprinkled  breast, 
Give  me  love,  or  give  me  rest ! 


I  have  wandered  lone  and  far 
As  the  ship  of  Izdubar, 
When  the  gathered  waters  rose 
High  on  Ni/.ir's  mountain  snows, 
Drifting  where  the  torrent  sped 
Over  life  and  glory  dead. 
Hear  me  now  !     1  stretch  my  hands 
From  the  moon-sea  of  the  sands 
Unto  thee,  or  any  star 
That  was  guide  to  Izdubar! 
Where  the  bulls  with  kingly  heads 
Guard  the  way  to  palace-beds, 
Once  I  saw  a  woman  go, 
Swift  as  air  and  suft  as  snow, 
Making  swan  and  cypress  one, 
Steel  and  honey,  night  and  sun,  — 
Once  of  death  I  knew  the  sting : 
Beauty  queen  — and  I  not  king  ! 


Where  the  Hanging  Gardens  soar 
Over  the  Euphrates'  shore, 
And  from  palm  and  clinging  vine 
Lift  aloft  the  Median  pine, 
Torches  flame  and  wine  is  poured, 
And  the  child  of  Bel  is  lord! 
I  am  here  alone  with  thee, 
Ishtar,  daughter  of  the  Sea, 
Who  of  woven  dew  and  air 
Spread'st  an  ocean,  phantom-fair, 
With  a  slow  pulse  beating  through 
Wave  of  air  and  foam  of  dew. 
As  I  stand,  I  seem  to  drift 
With  its  noiseless  fall  and  lift, 
While  a  veil  of  lightest  lawn, 
Or  a  floating  form  withdrawn, 
Or  a  glimpse  of  beckoning  hands 
Gleams  and  fades  above  the  sands. 


Day,  that  mixed  my  soul  with  men, 
Has  it  died  forever,  then  ? 
Is  there  any  world  but  this  ? 
If  the  god  deny  his  bliss, 


GABRIEL. 


209 


And  the  goddess  cannot  give, 
What  aje  gods,  that  men  should  live  ? 
Lo !  the  sand  beneath  my  feet 
Hoards  the  bounty  of  its  heat, 
And  thy  silver  cheeks  I  see 
Bright  with  him  who  burns  for  thee. 
Give  the  airy  semblance  form, 
Bid  the  dream  be  near  and  warm  ; 
Or,  if  dreams  but  flash  and  die 
As  a  mock  to  heart  and  eye, 
Then  descend  thyself,  and  be, 
Ishtar,  sacred  bride  to  me  ! 


MY  PEOLOGUE. 


IF  heat  of  youth,  't  is  heat  suppressed 
That  fills  my  breast : 

The  childhood  of  a  voiceless  lyre 
Preserves  my  fire. 

I  chanted  not  while  I  was  young ; 

But  ere  age  chill,  I  liberate  my  tongue  ! 


Apart  from  stormy  ways  of  men, 

Maine's  loneliest  glen 
Held  me  as  banished,  and  unheard 

I  saved  my  word  : 
I  would  not  know  the  bitter  taste 
Of  the  crude  fame  which  falls  to  them 
that  haste. 


On  each  impatient  year  I  tossed 

A  holocaust 
Of  effort,  ashes  ere  it  burned, 

And  justly  spurned. 
If  now  I  own  maturer  days, 
I  know  not :  dust  to  me  is  passing  praise. 


But  out  of  life  arises  song, 

Clear,  vital,  strong,  — 
The   speech   men   pray  for  when  they 
pine, 

The  speech  divine 
No  other  can  interpret :  grand 
And  permanent  as  time  and  race  and 
land. 


I  dreamed  I  spake  it :  do  I  dream, 
In  pride  supreme, 
14 


Or,  like  late  lovers,  tound  the  bride 

Their  youth  denied, 
Is  this  my  stinted  passion's  flow  ? 
It  well  may  be ;  and  they  that  read  will 
know. 


GABEIEL. 


ONCE  let  the  Angel  blow !  — 

A  peal  from  the  parted  heaven, 

The  first  of  seven ! 

For  the  time  is  come  that  was  foretold 

So  long  ago! 

As  the  avalanche  gathers,  huge  and  cold, 

From  the  down  of  the  harmless  snow, 

The  years   and    the  ages   gather  and 

hang 

Till  the  day  when  the  word  is  spoken : 
When  they  that  dwell  in  the  end  of 

time 

Are  smitten  alike  for  the  early  crime 
As  the  vials  of  wrath  are  broken  ! 

ii. 

Yea,  the  time  hath  coine  ; 

Though  Earth  is  rich,  her  children  are 

dumb! 

Ye  cry :  Beware 
Of  the  dancer's  floating  hair, 
And  the  cymbal's  clash,  and  the  sound 

of  pipe  and  drum  ! 
But  the  Prophet  cries :  Beware 
Of  the  hymn  unheard,  the  unanswered 

prayer ; 

For  ignorance  is  past, 
And  knowledge  comes  at  last, 
And  the  burden  it  brings  to  you  how 

can  ye  bear  ? 


Again  let  the  Angel  blow ! 

The  seals  are  loosened  that  seemed  to 

bind 

The  Future's  bliss  and  woe  ! 
For  a  shrinking  soul,  an  uncertain  mind, 
For  eyes  that  see,  but  are  growing  blind, 
Your  landmarks  fade  and  change  : 
The  colors  to-day  you  borrow 
Take  another  hue  to-morrow  ; 
The  forms  of  your  faith  are  wild  and 

strange ! 

Walking,  you  stagger  to  and  fro  : 
So,  let  the  Angel  blow  ! 


210 


LYRICS. 


Ah,  shall  the  Angel  blow  ? 
Something  must  have  remained, 
Something  fresh  and  unstained, 
Sprung  from  the  common  soil  where  the 

virtues  grow : 
Nay,  it  is  not  so  ! 

Art  succumbs  to  the  coarser  sense, 
Greed  o'ercometh  sweet  abstinence  ; 
Of  vices  young  men  talk, 
In  scarlet  your  women  walk, 
And  the  soul  of  honor  that  made  you 

Sroud, 
;ier  grace  your  lives  avowed, 
Are   a  passive   corpse   and   a   tattered 

shroud : 
What  you   forget,   can   your   children 

know  ? 
So,  let  the  Angel  blow  ! 


Yes,  let  the  Angel  blow ! 

A  peal  from  the  parted  heaven, 

The  first  of  seven ;  — 

The  warning,  not  yet  the  sign,  of  woe  ! 

That  men  arise 

And  look  about  them  with  wakened  eyes, 

Behold  on  their  garments  the  dust  and 

slime, 

Refrain,  forbear, 

Accept  the  weight  of  a  nobler  care 
And  take  reproach  from  the  fallen  time  ! 


THE  LOST  CARYATID. 

WHEN  over  Salamis    stands   Homer's 
moon, 

And  from  the  wasted  wave 
Of  spent  Ilissus  falls  no  liquid  croon, 

But  tears  that  wet  a  grave  ; 
When  on  Pentelicus  the  quarried  scars 

Are  dusk  as  dying  stars ; 

When   Attica's  gray  olives  blend  and 

gleam 

Like  sea-mists  o'er  the  plain  ; 
And,  islanded  in  Time's  eternal  stream, 

Only  Athene's  fane 
Shines  forth,  when  every  light  of  heaven 

must  kiss 
Art's  one  Acropolis : 

Then,  unto  him  —  the  modern  Hellenes 

say  — 
In  whom  old  dreams  survive ; 


For  whom  the  force  of  each  immortal 
day 

Earth  knew,  is  yet  alive  — 
To  him  who  waits  and  listens  there  alone, 

Rises  a  strange,  sweet  moan. 

The  voice  of  broken  marble,  the  com 
plaint 

Of  beauty  nigh  despair, 
In  the  thick  wilderness  of  years  grown 

faint 

For  lack  of  rite  and  prayer, 
Since  all  perfection,  making  her  sublime, 
Provoked  her  evil  time. 

It  floats  around  the  Panathenaic  frieze 

Till  every  triglyph  sings, 
While   up  from  Dionysian   chairs  the 

breeze 

A  murmurous  answer  brings ; 
But  most  it  gathers  voice,  and  rests 

upon 
The  spoiled  Erechtheion. 

There  the  white  architrave  that  fronts 

the  east 

Lightly  five  sisters  hold 
As  blossom-baskets  at  a  bridal  feast, 

Or  jars  of  Samian  gold : 
Each  proud  and  pure,  and  still  a  glorious 

wraith 
Of  Beauty  wed  to  Faith ! 

The  sixth  has  vanished,  from  the  service 

torn, 

Long  since,  by  savage  hands, 
And  keeps  dumb  vigil  where  the  misty 

morn 

Creeps  o'er  Cimmerian  lands ; 
While  they,  in  pallid  lip  and  dew-damp 

cheek 
Lament,  and  seem  to  speak : 

"  Where  art  thou,  sister  ?     Thee,  the 

sparkling  day, 

The  moonbeam,  finds  no  more, 
Save  in  some   hall  where  darker  goda 

decay 

On  some  barbarian  shore  ! 
Ah,   where,   beyond  Poseidon's    bitter 

foam, 
Hear'st  thou  the  voice  of  home  ? 

"  Where,  when,  as  now,  the  night's  my» 
terious  hush 

Our  ancient  life  renews, 
Or  when  the  tops  of  Corydallus  flush 

O'er  the  departing  dews  — 


THE  VILLAGE  STORK. 


211 


A.nd  lovely  Attica,  in  silver  spread, 
Forgets  that  she  is  dead  — 

"  Bidest  thou  in  exile  ?     Speak  !     Our 

being  cold,  — 

Thou  knowest !  —  yet  retains 
The  thrill  of  choric  strophes,  flutes  of 

gold,  _ 

And  all  victorious  strains. 
Dark  is  the  world   that  knows  not  us 

divine ; 
But,  ah  !  what  fate  is  thine  ?  " 

Lo  !  from  afar,  across  unmeasured  seas 
An  answering  sound  is  blown, 

As  when  some  wind-god's  ghost  moves 

Thessaly's 
Tall  pines  to  solemn  tone  ; 

Yet  happy,  as  a  sole  Arcadian  flute, 
When  harvest-fields  are  mute. 

"  I  hear  ye,  sisters  ! "  —  thus  the  answer 

falls: 

"  My  marble  sends  reply 
To  you,  who  guard  the  fair,  immortal 

halls 

Beneath  our  ancient  sky ; 
Yet  give  no  sadder  echo  to  your  moan,  — 
I  am  not  here  alone  ! 

"  Dark  walls  surround  me  ;  that  keen 

azure  fire 

Of  day  and  night  is  fled ; 
Yet  worship  clothes  me,  and  the  old  de 
sire 

That  round  your  feet  is  dead  : 
I   see   glad   eyes,   I  feel   fresh   spirits 

burn, 
And  beauteous  faith  return  ! 

What  idle  hand  or  scornful  set  me 

here 

I  heed  no  longer  now  ; 
Men  know  my  loveliness,  and,  half  in 

fear, 

Touch  mine  insulted  brow : 
In  me  the  glory  of  the  gods  discrowned 
The  race  again  has  found. 

'  More  proudly,  sisters,  bear  your  archi 
trave 

Without  me,  whom  ye  miss  ! 
Truth  finds  her  second  birthplace,  not 

her  grave, 
On  our  Acropolis ! 
A.nd  children  here,  while  there  but  aliens 

roam, 
Shall  build  once  more  our  home." 


THE  VILLAGE  STORK. 

THK  old  Hercynian  Forest  sent 

His  weather  on  the  plain  ; 
Wahlwinkel's  orchards  writhed  and  bent 

In  whirls  of  wind  and  rain. 
Within  her  nest,  upon  the  roof, 
For  generations  tempest-proof, 
Wahlwinkel's  stork  with  her  young  ones 

lay, 

When  the  hand  of  the  hurricane  tore 

away 

The  house  and  the  home  that  held 
them. 

The  storm  passed  by ;  the  happy  trees 

Stood  up,  and  kissed  the  sun ; 
And  from  the  birds  new  melodies 

Came  fluting  one  by  one. 
The  stork,  upon  the  paths  below, 
Went  sadly  pacing  to  and  fro, 
With  dripping  plumes  and    head    de 
pressed, 
For  she  thought  of  the  spoiled  ancestral 

nest, 
And  the  old,  inherited  honor. 

"  Behold  her  now !  "  the  throstle  sang 

From  out  the  linden  tree ; 
"  Who  knows  from  what   a  line  she 
sprang, 

Beyond  the  unknown  sea  ?  " 
"  If  she  could  siug,  perchance  her  tale 
Might  move  us,"  chirruped  the  nightin 
gale. 

"  Sing  1  She  can  only  rattle  and  creak  ! " 
Whistled  the  bullfinch,  with  silver  beak, 

Within  the  wires  of  his  prison. 

And  all  birds  there,  or  loud  or  low, 
Were  one  in  scoff  and  scorn ; 

But  still  the  stork  paced  to  and  fro, 
As  utterly  forlorn. 

Then  suddenly,  in  turn  of  eye, 

She  saw  a  poet  passing  by, 

And  the  thought  in  his  brain  was  an 
arrow  of  fire, 

That  pierced  her  with  passion,  and  pride, 

and  ire, 
And  gave  her  a  voice  to  answer. 

She  raised  her  head  and  shook  her  wings, 
And  faced  the  piping  crowd. 

"  Best  service,"  said  she,  "  never  sings. 
True  honor  is  not  loud. 

My  kindred  carol  not,  nor  boast ; 

Yet  we  are  loved  and  welcomed  most, 


212 


LYRICS. 


And  our  ancient  race  is  dearest  and  first, 
And  the  hand  that  hurts  us  is  held  ac 
cursed 
In  every  home  of  Wahlwinkel ! 

"Beneath  a  sky  forever  fair, 

And  with  a  summer  sod, 
The  land   I  come  from  smiles  —  and 

there 

My  brother  was  a  god  ! 
My  nest  upon  a  temple  stands 
And  sees  the  shine  of  desert  lands  ; 
And  the   palm  and  the  tamarisk  cool 

my  wings, 
When  the  blazing  beam  of  the  noonday 

stings, 
And  I  drink  from  the  holy  river ! 

"  There  I  am  sacred,  even  as  here ; 

Yet  dare  I  not  be  lost, 
When  meads  are  bright,  hearts  full  of 
cheer, 

At  blithesome  Pentecost. 
Then  from  mine  obelisk  I  depart, 
Guided  by  something  in  my  heart, 
And  sweep  in  a  line  over  Libyan  sands 
To  the  blossoming  olives  of  Grecian  lands, 

And  rest  on  the  Cretan  Ida ! 

"  Parnassus  sees  me  as  I  sail ; 

I  cross  the  Adrian  brine  ; 
The  distant  summits  fade  and  fail, 

Dalmatian,  Apennine ; 
The  Alpine  snows  beneath  me  gleam, 
I  see  the  yellow  Danube  stream  ; 
But  I  hasten  on  till  my  speut  wings  fall 
Where  I  bring  a  blessing  to  each  and  all, 

And  babes  to  the  wives  of  Wahlwin 
kel  ! " 

She  drooped  her  head  and  spake  no 
more ; 

The  birds  on  either  hand 
gang  louder,  lustier  than  before  — 

They  could  not  understand. 
Thus  mused  the  stork,  with  snap  of  beak : 
"  Better  be  silent,  than  so  speak  ! 
Highest  being  can  never  be  taught  : 
They  have  their  voices,  I  my  thought  j 

And  they  were  never  in  Egypt !  " 


SONNET. 

WHO,  harnessed  in  his  mail  of  Self,  de 
mands 

To  be  men's  master  and  their  sovran 
guide  ?  — 


Proclaims  his  place,  and  by  sole  right  of 

pride 
A  candidate  for   love    and    reverence 

stands, 

As  if  the  power  within  his  empty  hands 
Had  fallen  from  the  sky,  with  all  beside, 
So  oft  to  longing  and  to  toil  denied, 
That  makes  the  leaders  and  the  lords  of 

lands  ? 
He  who  would  lead  must  first  himself 

be  led  ; 

Who  would  be  loved  be  capable  of  love 
Beyond  the  utmost  he   receives;  who 

claims 
The  rod  of  power  must  first  have  bowed 

his  head, 

And,  being  honored,  honor  what 's  above : 
This  know  the  men  who  leave  the  world 

their  names. 


FROM  THE  NORTH. 

ONCE  more  without  you  !  Sighing,  Dear, 

once  more, 

For  all  the  sweet,  accustomed  ministries 
Of  wife  and  mother :  not  as  when  the 

seas 

That  parted  us  my  tender  message  bore 
From  the  gray  olives  of  the  Cretan  shore 
To  those  that  hide  the  broken  Phidian 

frieze 

Of  our  Athenian   home,  —  but  far  de 
grees, 
Wide  plains,  great  forests,  part  us  now. 

My  door 
Looks  on  the  rushing  Neva,  cold  and 

clear : 
The  swelling  domes  in  hovering  splendor 

lie 

Like  golden  bubbles,  eager  to  be  gone  ; 
But  the  chill  crystal  of  the  atmosphere 
Withholds  them,  and  along  the  northern 

sky 
The  amber  midnight  smiles  in  dreams 

of  dawn. 


A  WEDDING  SONNET. 

TO   T.   B.   A.   AND    L.   W. 

SAD  Autumn,  drop  thy  weedy  crown 

forlorn, 
Put  off  thy  cloak  of  cloud,  thy  scarf  of 

mist, 

And  dress  in  gauzy  gold  and  amethyst 
A  day  benign,  of  sunniest  influence  born, 


CHRISTMAS   SONNETS. 


213 


As  may  befit  a  Poet's  marriage  morn  ! 
Give  buds  another  dream,  another  tryst 
To  loving  hearts,  and  print  on  lips  un- 

kissed 
Betrothal-kisses,    laughing    Spring    to 

scorn ! 

Yet,  if  unfriendly  thou,  with  sullen  skies, 
Bleak  rains,  or  moaning  winds,  dost 

menace  wrong, 
Here  art  thou  foiled  :  a  bridal  sun  shall 

rise 

And  bridal  emblems  unto  these  belong. 
Round  her  the  sunshine  of  her  beauty 

lies, 
And  breathes  round  him  the  spring-time 

of  his  song ! 


CHRISTMAS  SONNETS. 
I. 

TO  O.   H.   B. 

IF   that  my    hand,  like    yours,    dear 

George,  were  skilled 
To  win  from  Wordsworth's  scanty  plot 

of  ground 
A  shining  harvest,  such  as  you  have 

found, 
Where  strength  and  grace,  fraternally 

fulfilled, 
As    in    those    sheaves  whose    rustling 

glories  gild 
The  hills  of  August,  folded  are,  and 

bound  ; 

So  would  I  draw  my  loviiig  tillage  round 
Its  borders,  bid   the   gentlest  rains  be 

spilled, 
The  goldenest  suns  its  happy  growth 

compel, 
^d  bind  for  you  the  ripe,  redundant 

grain  : 
But,  ah  !  you  stand  amid  your  songful 

sheaves, 
So  rich,  this  weed-born  flower  you  might 

disdain, 

Save  that  of  me  its  growth  and  color  tell, 
And  of  my  love  some  perfume  haunt 

its    leaves ! 

II. 

TO    E.   H.    8. 

I  HE  years  go  by,  old  Friend !    Each, 

as  it  fleets, 
Moves  to  A  farther,  fairer  realm,  the  time 


When  first  we  twain  the  pleasant  land 

of  Rhyme 
Discovered,  choosing  side  by  side  our 

seats 
Below  our  separate  Gods :  in  midnight 

streets 
And  haunted    attics  flattered    by  the 

chime 

Of  silver  words,  and,  fed  by  faith  sublime, 
I  Shelley's   mantle  wore,  you  that  of 

Keats,  — 
Dear  dreams,  that  marked  the  Muse's 

childhood  then, 
Nor  now  to  be  disowned !    The  years  go 

by; 

The  clear-eyed  Goddess  flatters  us  no 

more; 

And  yet,  I  think,  in  soberer  aims  of  men, 
And  Song's  severer  service,  you  and  I 
Are  nearer,  dearer,  faithfuller  than  be 
fore. 

III. 

TO   E.    C.    8. 

WHEN  days  were  long,  and  o'er  that 

farm  of  mine, 
Green  Cedarcroft,  the  summer  breezes 

blew, 

And  from  the  walnut  shadows  I  and  you, 
Dear  Edmund,  saw  the  red  lawn-roses 

shine, 

Or  followed  our  idyllic  Brandywine 
Through  meadows  flecked  with  many  a 

flowery  hue, 
To  where  with  wild  Arcadian  pomp  I 

drew 
Your  Bacchic  march  among  the  startled 

kine, 

You  gave  me,  linked  with  old  Maeonides, 
Your  loving  sonnet,  —  record  dear  and 

true 
Of  days  as  dear :  and  now,  when  suns 

are  brief, 
And  Christmas  snows  are  on  the  naked 

trees, 

I  give  you  this,  —  a  withered  winter  leaf, 
Yet  with  your  blossom  from  one  root  it 

grew. 

IV. 

TO  J.   L.   G. 

IF  I  could  touch  with  Petrarch's  pen 

this  strain 
Of  graver  song,  and  shape  to  liquid  flow 


214 


LYRICS. 


Of  soft  Itajan  syllables  the  glow 
That  warms  my  heart,  my  tribute  were 

not  vain  : 

But  how  shall  I  such  measured  sweet 
ness  gain 

As  may  your  golden  nature  fitly  show, 
And  witli  the  heart-light  shine,  that  fills 

you  so, 

It  pales  the  graces  of  the  cultured  brain  ? 
Long  have  I  known,  Love  better  is  than 

Fame, 
And  Love   hath  crowned  you :   yet  if 

any  bay 
Cling  to  my  chaplet  when  the   years 

have  flei, 
And  I  am  dust,  may  this  which  bears 

your  name 
Cling  latest,  that  my  love's  result  shall 

stay 
When  that  which  mine  ambition  wrought 

is  dead ! 


A  STATESMAN. 

HE  knew  the  mask  of  principle  to  wear, 
And  power  accept  while  seeming  to  de 
cline  : 
So  cunningly  he  wrought,  with  tools  so 

fine, 

Setting  his  courses  with  so  frank  an  air, 
(Yet  most  secure  when  seeming  most  to 

dare,) 

He  did  deceive  us  all :  with  mien  benign 
His  malice  smiled,  his  cowardice  the  sign 
Of  courage  took,  his  selfishness  grew 

fair, 

So  deftly  could  his  foiled  ambition  show 
As  modest  acquiescence.  Now,  't  is 

clear 
What  man  he  is,  —  how  false  his  high 

report ; 

Mean  to  the  friend,  caressing  to  the  foe  ; 
Plotting  the  mischief  which  he  feigns  to 

fear : 

3hief  Eunuch,  were  but  ours  the  Sul 
tan's  court ! 


A  PRESIDENT. 

THOD,  whom  the  slave-lords  with  con 
temptuous  feet 

Spurned  in  their  double  insult  —  taunt 
ing  thee, 

As  born  of  Labor  and  of  Poverty, 

With  scorn  in  thine  abasement  most  un 
meet, 


How  dost  thou  find  their  false  embraces 

sweet ! 
How,  so  insanely  blind,  thou  canat  not 

see 
What  shameless  scoffs  in  their  applauses 

be  ? 
So  took  the  drunken  slave,  in  Roman 

street, 
The  hoinnge  of  his   master's   mocking 

mirth : 
And  thou,  who  mightst  have  lifted  up 

thy  race, 

Dost  rather  take  from  Toil  its  dignity, 
And   unto  ignorance  addest  fresh  dis 
grace. 
But  we  shall  sweep  that  system  from 

the  earth 
Which  gave  us  Treason,  war,  and  lastly 

—  thee ! 


SONNET. 

WHERE   should  the  Poet's  home  and 

household  be  ? 
Beneath  what  skies,  in  what  untroubled 

air 

Sings  he  for  very  joy  of  songs  so  fair 
That  in  their  steadfast  laws  he  most  is 

free? 
In  woods  remote,  where  darkly  tree  on 

tree 

Let  fall  their  curtained  shadows,  to  en 
snare 
His  dreams,  or  hid  in  Fancy's  happiest 

lair,  — 
Some  laughing  island  of  the  stormless 

sea  ? 
Ah,  never  such  to   him  their  welcome 

gave ! 

But,  flattered  by  the  gods  in  finer  scorn, 
He   drifts   upon   the  world's   unresting 

wave, 
As  drifts  a  sea-flower,  by  the  tempest 

torn 

From  sheltered  porches  of  the  coral  cave 
Where  it  expands,  of  calm  and  silence 

born. 


TO  MARIE. 

WITH  A  COPT  OF  THE  TRANSLATION  OF 
FAUST. 

THIS  plant,  it  may  be,  grew  from  vigor 
ous  seed, 
Within  the  field  of  study  set  by  Song ; 


TO   MARIE. 


215 


Sent  from  its  sprouting  germ,  perchance, 
a  throng 

Of  roots  even  to  that  depth  where  pas 
sions  breed  ; 

Chose  its  own  time,  and  of  its  place  took 
heed ; 

Sucked  fittest  nutriment  to  make  it 
strong  :  — 

But  you  from  every  way  ward  season's 
wrong 


Did  guard  it,  showering,  at  its  changing 

need, 

Or  dew  of  sympathy,  or  summer  glow 
Of  apprehension  of  the  finer  toil, 
And  gave  it,  so,  the  nature  that  endures. 
Our  secret   this,  the   world  can  never 

know  : 
You  were  the  breeze  and  sunshine,  I  the 

soil : 
The  form  is  mine,  color  and  odor  yours  1 


ODES. 


ODES. 


GETTYSBURG  ODE. 
DBHOATION  op  THB  NATIONAL  MONUMENT,  JULT  1, 1869 


AFTER  the  eyes  that  looked,  the  lips  that  spake 
Here,  from  the  shadows  of  impending  death, 

Those  words  of  solemn  breath, 

What  voice  may  fitly  break 
The  silence,  doubly  hallowed,  left  by  him  ? 
We  can  but  bow  the  head,  with  eyes  grown  dim, 

And,  as  a  Nation's  litany,  repeat 
The  phrase  his  martyrdom  hath  made  complete, 
Noble  as  then,  but  now  more  sadly-sweet : 
"Let  us,  the  Living,  rather  dedicate 
Ourselves  to  the  unfinished  work,  which  they 
Thus  far  advanced  so  nobly  on  its  way, 

And  save  the  perilled  State ! 
Let  us,  upon  this  field  where  they,  the  brave, 
Their  last  full  measure  of  devotion  gave, 
Highly  resolve  they  have  not  died  in  vain  !  — 
That,  under  God,  the  Nation's  later  birth 

Of  Freedom,  and  the  people's  gain 
Of  their  own  Sovereignty,  shall  never  wane 
And  perish  from  the  circle  of  the  earth  ! " 
From  such  a  perfect  text,  shall  Song  aspire 

To  light  her  faded  fire, 
And  into  wandering  music  turn 
Its  virtue,  simple,  sorrowful,  and  stern  ? 
His  voice  all  elegies  anticipated; 

For,  whatsoe'er  the  strain, 

We  hear  that  one  refrain  : 
"We  consecrate  ourselves  to  them,  the  Consecrated!1 


After  the  thunder-storm  our  heaven  is  blue  : 
Far-off",  along  the  borders  of  the  sky, 
In  silver  folds  the  clouds  of  battle  lie, 

With  soft,  consoh'ng  sunlight  shining  through; 

And  round  the  sweeping  circle  of  your  hills 
The  crashing  cannon-thrills 

Have  faded  from  the  memory  of  the  air ; 

And  Summer  pours  from  unexhausted  fountains 
Her  bliss  on  yonder  mountains : 

The  camps  are  tenantless,  the  breastworks  bare : 


220  ODES. 


Earth  keeps  no  stain  where  hero-blood  was  poured : 
The  hornets,  humming  011  their  wings  of  lead, 
Have  ceased  to  sting,  their  angry  swarms  are  dead, 

And,  harmless  in  its  scabbard,  rusts  the  sword! 


Oh,  not  till  now,  —  Oh,  now  we  dare,  at  last, 

To  give  our  heroes  fitting  consecration! 
Not  till  the  soreness  of  the  strife  is  past, 

And  Peace  hath  comforted  the  weary  Nation ! 
So  long  her  sad,  indignant  spirit  held 
One  keen  regret,  one  throb  of  pain,  unquelled ; 
So  long  the  land  about  her  feet  was  waste, 

The  ashes  of  the  burning  lay  upon  her, 
We  stood  beside  their  graves  with  brows  abased, 

Waiting  the  purer  mood  to  do  them  honor ! 
They,  through  the  flames  of  this  dread  holocaust, 
The  patriot's  wrath,  the  soldier's  ardor,  lost : 
They  sit  above  us  and  above  our  passion, 

Disparaged  even  by  our  human  tears,  — 
Beholding  truth  our  race,  perchance,  may  fashion 

In  the  slow  process  of  the  creeping  years. 
We  saw  the  still  reproof  upon  their  faces  ; 
We  heard  them  whisper  from  the  shining  spaces : 
'  To-day  ye  grieve  :  come  not  to  us  with  sorrow ! 
Wait  for  the  glad,  the  reconciled  To-morrow ! 
Your  grief  but  clouds  the  ether  where  we  dwell ; 

Your  anger  keeps  your  souls  and  ours  apart : 
But  come  with  ceace  and  pardon,  all  is  well ! 

And  come  with  love,  we  touch  you,  heart  to  heart !  ' 


Immortal  Brothers,  we  have  heard  ! 
Our  lips  declare  the  reconciling  word  : 
For  Battle  taught,  that  set  us  face  to  face, 

The  stubborn  temper  of  the  race, 
And  both,  from  fields  no  longer  alien,  come, 

To  grander  action  equally  invited,  — 
Marshalled  by  Learning's  trump,  by  Labor's  drum, 

In  strife  that  purifies  and  makes  united  ! 
We  force  to  build,  the  powers  that  would  destri  y ; 
The  muscles,  hardened  by  the  sabre's  grasp, 

Now  give  our  hands  a  firmer  clasp  : 
We  bring  not  grief  to  you,  but  solemn  joy  1 

And,  feeling  you  so  near, 
Look  forward  with  your  eyes,  divinely  clear, 
To  some  sublimely-perfect,  sacred  year, 
When  sons  of  fathers  whom  ye  overcame 
Forget  in  mutual  pride  the  partial  blame, 
And  join  with  us,  to  set  the  final  crown 

Upon  your  dear  renown,  — 
The  People's  Union  in  heart  and  namo  1 


And  yet,  ye  Dead !  —  and  yet 
Our  clouded  natures  cling  to  one  regret : 


GETTYSBURG  ODE.  221 

We  are  not  all  resigned 
To  yield,  with  even  mind, 

Our  scarcely-risen  stars,  that  here  untimely  set 
We  needs  must  think  of  History  that  waits 

For  lines  that  live  but  in  their  proud  beginning,  — 
Arrested  promises  and  cheated  fates,  — 

Youth's  boundless  venture  and  its  single  winning ! 
We  see  the  ghosts  of  deeds  they  might  have  done, 

The  phantom  homes  that  beaconed  their  endeavor ; 
The  seeds  of  countless  lives,  in  them  begun, 
That  might  have  multipled  for  us  forever ! 

We  grudge  the  better  strain  of  men 
That  proved  itself,  and  was  extinguished  then  — 
The  field,  with  strength  and  hope  so  thickly  sown, 
Wherefrom  no  other  harvest  shall  be  mown : 
For  all. the  land,  within  its  clasping  seas, 

Is  poorer  now  in  bravery  and  beauty, 
Such  wealth  of  manly  loves  and  energies 
Was  given  to  teach  us  all  the  freeman's  sacred  duty ! 


Again  't  is  they,  the  Dead, 
By  whom  our  hearts  are  comforted. 
Deep  as  the  land-blown  murmurs  of  the  waves 
The  answer  cometh  from  a  thousand  graves  : 

"  Not  so  !  we  are  not  orphaned  of  our  fate ! 
Though  life  were  warmest,  and  though  love  were  sweetest, 
We  still  have  portion  in  their  best  estate  : 

Our  fortune  is  the  fairest  and  completest! 
Our  homes  are  everywhere :  our  loves  are  set 

In  hearts  of  man  and  woman,  sweet  and  vernal: 
Courage  and  Truth,  the  children  we  beget, 

Unmixed  of  baser  earth,  shall  be  eternal. 
A  finer  spirit  in  the  blood  shall  give 
The  token  of  the  lines  wherein  we  live,  — 
Unselfish  force,  unconscious  nobleness 

That  in  the  shocks  of  fortune  stands  unshaken,  — 
The  hopes  that  in  their  very  being  bless, 

The  aspirations  that  to  deeds  awaken ! 
If  aught  of  finer  virtue  ye  allow 

To  us,  that  faith  alone  its  like  shall  win  you ; 
So,  trust  like  ours  shall  ever  lift  the  brow  ; 

And  strength  like  ours  shall  ever  steel  the  sinew ! 
We  are  the  blossoms  which  the  storm  has  cast 

From  the  Spring  promise  of  our  Freedom's  tree, 
Pruning  its  overgrowths,  that  so,  at  last, 

Its  later  fruit  more  bountiful  shall  be  !  — 
Content,  if,  when  the  balm  of  Time  assuages 
The  branch's  hurt,  some  fragrance  of  our  lives 

In  all  the  land  survives, 
And  makes  their  memory  sweet  through  still  expanding  ages ! ' 

VII. 

Thus  grandly,  they  we  mourn,  themselves  console  us ; 
And,  as  their  spirits  conquer  and  control  us, 
We  hear,  from  some  high  realm  that  lies  beyond, 
The  hero-voices  of  the  Past  respond. 


222  ODES. 

From  every  State  that  reached  a  broader  right 

Through  fiery  gates  of  battle  ;  from  the  shock 

Of  old  invasions  on  the  People's  rock  ; 

From  tribes  that  stood,  in  Kings'  and  Priests'  desp.'te; 

From  graves,  forgotten  in  the  Syrian  sand, 

Or  nameless  barrows  of  the  Northern  straud, 

Or  gorges  of  the  Alps  and  Pyrenees, 

Or  the  dark  bowels  of  devouring  seas,  — 

Wherever  Man  for  Man's  sake  died,  —  wherever 

Death  stayed  the  march  of  upward-climbing  feet, 

Leaving  their  Present  incomplete, 
But  through  far  Futures  crowning  their  endeavor,— 
Their  ghostly  voices  to  our  ears  are  sent, 
As  when  the  high  note  of  a  trumpet  wrings 

^Eolian  answers  from  the  strings 
Of  many  a  mute,  unfingered  instrument ! 
Plataean  cymbals  thrill  for  us  to-day  ; 
The  horns  of  Sempach  in  our  echoes  play, 
And  nearer  yet,  and  sharper,  and  more  stern, 
The  slogan  rings  that  startled  Bannockbiirn  ; 
Till  from  the  field,  made  green  with  kindred  deed, 

The  shields  are  clashed  in  exultation 

Above  the  dauntless  Nation, 
That  for  a  Continent  has  fought  its  Ilunnymede ! 


Aye,  for  a  Continent !     The  heart  that  beats 

With  such  rich  blood  of  sacrifice 
Shall,  from  the  Tropics,  drowsed  with  languid  heata, 

To  the  blue  ramparts  of  the  Northern  ice, 
Make  felt  its  pulses,  all  this  young  world  over!  — 

Shall  thrill,  and  shake,  and  sway 
Each  land  that  bourgeons  in  the  Western  day, 
Whatever  flag  may  float,  whatever  shield  may  cover ! 
With  fuller  manhood  every  wind  is  rife, 

In  every  soil  are  sown  the  seeds  of  valor, 
Since  out  of  death  came  forth  such  boundless  life, 

Such  ruddy  beauty  out  of  anguished  pallor ! 

And  that  first  deed,  along  the  Southern  wave, 

Spoiled  not  the  sister-land,  but  lent  an  arm  to  save! 


Now,  in  her  seat  secure, 
Where  distant  menaces  no  more  can  reach  her, 

Our  land,  in  undivided  freedom  pure, 
Becomes  the  unwilling  world's  unconscious  teacher; 
And,  day  by  day,  beneath  sercner  skies, 
The  unshaken  pillars  of  her  palace  rise,  — 
The  Doric  shafts,  that  lightly  upward  press, 
And  hide  in  grace  their  giant  massiveness. 
What  though  the  sword  has  hewn  each  corner-stone, 

And  precious  blood  cements  the  deep  foundation ! 
Never  by  other  force  have  empires  grown ; 

From  otiier  basis  never  rose  a  nation  ! 
For  strength  is  horn  of  struggle,  faith  of  doubt, 

Of  discord  law,  and  freedom  of  oppression  : 


SHAKESPEARE'S  STATUE.  223 

We  hail  from  Pisgah,  with  exulting  sh^ut, 
The  Promised  Land  below  us,  bright  with  sun, 

And  deem  its  pastures  won, 

Ere  toil  and  blood  have  earned  us  their  possession ! 
Each  aspiration  of  our  human  earth 
Becomes  an  act  through  keenest  pangs  of  birth ; 
Each  force,  to  hless,  must  cease  to  be  a  dream, 
And  conquer  life  through  agony  supreme  ; 
Each  inborn  right  must  outwardly  be  tested 
By  stern  material  weapons,  ere  it  stand 
In  the  enduring  fabric  of  the  land, 
Secured  for  these  who  yielded  it,  and  those  who  wrested  I 


This  they  have  done  for  us  who  slumber  here, — 

Awake,  alive,  though  now  so  dumbly  sleeping ; 
Spreading  the  board,  but  tasting  not  its  cheer, 

Sowing,  but  never  reaping ;  — 
Building,  but  never  sitting  in  the  shade 
Of  the  strong  mansion  they  have  made  ;  — 
Speaking  their  word  of  life  with  mighty  tongue, 
But  hearing  not  the  echo,  million-voiced, 

Of  brothers  who  rejoiced, 

From  all  our  river  vales  and  mountains  flung  I 
So  take  them,  Heroes  of  the  songful  Past ! 
Open  your  ranks,  let  every  shining  troop 

Its  phantom  banners  droop, 
To  hail  Earth's  noblest  martyrs,  and  her  last ! 

Take  them,  O  Fatherland  ! 
Who,  dying,  conquered  in  thy  name ; 

And,  with  a  grateful  hand, 

Inscribe  their  deed  who  took  away  thy  blame,  — 
Give,  for  their  grandest  all,  thine  insufficient  fame ! 

Take  them,  0  God !  our  Brave, 
The  glad  fulfillers  of  Thy  dread  decree; 
Who  grasped  the  sword  for  Peace,  and  smote  to  save. 
And,  dying  here  for  Freedom,  also  died  for  Thee ! 

SHAKESPEARE'S  STATUE. 
CENTRAL  PARK,  NEW  YORK,  MAT  23,  1872. 


IN  this  free  Pantheon  of  the  air  and  sun, 
Where  stubborn  granite  grudgingly  gives  place 
To  petted  turf,  the  garden's  daintier  race 

Of  flowers,  and  Art  hath  slowly  won 
A  smile  from  grim,  primeval  barrenness, 

What  alien  Form  doth  stand  ? 
Where  scarcely  yet  the  heroes  of  the  land, 
As  in  their  future's  haven,  from  the  stress 
Of  all  conflicting  tides,  find  quiet  deep 

Of  bronze  or  marble  sleep, 
What  stranger  comes,  to  join  the  scanty  band  ? 

Who  pauses  here,  as  one  that  muses 

While  centuries  of  men  go  by, 


224  ODES. 

And  tmto  all  our  questioning  refuses 
His  clear,  infallible  reply  ? 
Who  hath  his  will  of  us,  beneath  our  new-world  sky  t 


Here,  in  his  right,  he  stands ! 
No  breadth  of  earth-dividing  seas  can  bar 
The  breeze  of  morning,  or  the  morning  star, 

From  visiting  our  lands : 
His  wit,  the  breeze,  his  wisdom,  as  the  star, 
Shone  where  our  earliest  life  was  set,  and  blew 

To  freshen  hope  and  plan 

In  brains  American,  — 
To  urge,  resist,  encourage,  and  subdue ! 
He  came,  a  household  ghost  we  could  not  ban : 
He  sat,  on  winter  nights,  by  cabin  fires ; 
His  summer  fairies  linked  their  hands 

Along  our  yellow  sands  ; 
He  preached  within  the  shadow  of  our  spires ; 
And  when  the  certain  Fate  drew  nigh,  to  cleave 
The  birth-cord,  and  a  separate  being  leave, 
He,  in  our  ranks  of  patient-hearted  men, 
Wrought  with  the  boundless  forces  of  his  fame, 

Victorious,  and  became 
The  Master  of  our  thought,  the  land's  first  Citizen  ! 


If,  here,  his  image  seem 
Of  softer  scenes  and  grayer  skies  to  dream, 
Thatched  cot  and  rustic  tavern,  ivied  hall, 

The  cuckoo's  April  call 
And  cowslip-meads  beside  the  Avon  stream, 
He  shall  not  fail  that  other  home  to  find 

We  could  not  leave  behind ! 
The  forms  of  Passion,  which  his  fancy  drew, 

In  us  their  ancient  likenesses  beget : 
So,  from  our  lives  forever  born  anew, 

He  stands  amid  his  own  creations  yet  I 
Here  comes  lean  Cassius,  of  conventions  tired ; 

Here,  in  his  coach,  luxurious  Antony 
Beside  his  Egypt,  still  of  men  admired ; 
And  Brutus  plans  some  purer  liberty ! 
A  thousand  Shylocks,  Jew  and  Christian,  pass ; 
A  hundred  Hamlets,  by  their  times  betrayed ; 
And  sweet  Anne  Page  comes  tripping  o'er  the  grass, 

And  antlered  Falstaff  pants  beneath  the  shade. 
Here  toss  upon  the  wanton  summer  wind 

The  locks  of  Rosalind ; 
Here  some  gay  glove  the  damned  spot  conceals 

Which  Lady  Macbeth  feels : 
His  ease  here  smiling  smooth  lago  takes, 

And  outcast  Lear  gives  passage  to  his  woe, 
And  here  some  foiled  Eeformer  sadly  breaks 

His  wand  of  Prospero  ! 
In  liveried  splendor,  side  by  side, 
Nick  Bottom  and  Titania  ride ; 


GOETHE. 

And  Portia,  flushed  with  cheers  of  men, 
Disdains  dear,  faithful  Imogen  ; 
And  Puck,  beside  the  form  of  Morse, 
Stops  on  his  forty-minute  course ; 
And  Ariel  from  his  swinging  bough 
A  blossom  casts  on  Bryant's  brow, 
Until,  as  summoned  from  his  brooding  brain, 

He  sees  his  children  all  again, 
In  us,  as  on  our  lips,  each  fresh,  immortal  strain ! 


Be  welcome,  Master !    In  our  active  air 

Keep  the  calm  strength  we  need  to  learn  of  thee ! 

A  steadfast  anchor  be 

Mid  passions  that  exhaust,  and  times  that  wear . 
Thy  kindred  race,  that  scarcely  knows 

What  power  is  in  Repose, 
What  permanence  in  Patience,  what  renown 
In  sile"nt  faith  and  plodding  toil  of  Art 

That  shyly  works  apart, 
All  these  in  thee  unconsciously  doth  crown  ! 


The  Many  grow,  through  honor  to  the  One  • 
And  what  of  loftier  life  we  do  not  live, 

This  Form  shall  help  to  give, 
In  our  free  Pantheon  of  the  air  and  sun  ! 
Here,  where  the  noise  of  Trade  is  loudest, 

It  builds  a  shrine  august, 
To  show,  while  pomp  of  wealth  is  proudest, 
How  brief  is  gilded  dust : 
How  Art  succeeds,  though  long, 
And  o'er  the  tumult  of  the  generations, 
The  strong,  enduring  spirit  of  the  nations, 

How  speaks  the  voice  of  Song  1 
Our  City,  at  her  gateways  of  the  sea, 

Twines  bay  around  the  mural  crown  upon  her 
And  wins  new  grace  and  dearer  dignity, 
Giving  our  race's  Poet  honor  1 

If  such  as  he 
Again  may  ever  be, 
And  our  humanity  another  crown 
Find  in  some  equal,  late  renown, 
The  reverence  of  what  he  was  shall  call  it  down 


GOETHE. 

NBW  YORK,  AUGUST  28,  1876. 


WHOSE  voice  shall  so  invade  the  spheres 
That,  ere  it  die,  the  Master  hears  1 

Whose  arm  is  now  so  strong 
To  fling  the  votive  garland  of  a  song, 
15 


226  ODES. 


That  some  fresh  odor  of  a  world  he  knew 
With  large  enjoyment,  and  may  yet 

Not  utterly  forget, 
Shall  reach  his  place,  and  whisper  whence  it  grew  f 

Dare  we  invoke  him,  that  he  pause 
On  trails  divine  of  uuimagiued  laws, 

And  bend  the  luminous  eyes 
Experience  could  not  dim,  nor  Fate  surprise, 
On  these  late  honors,  where  we  fondly  seem, 
Him  thus  exalting,  like  him  to  aspire, 

And  reach,  in  our  desire, 
The  triumph  of  his  toil,  the  beauty  of  his  dream  ! 


God  moulds  no  second  poet  from  the  clay 
Time  once  hath  cut  in  marble :  when,  at  last, 

The  veil  is  plucked  away, 
We  see  no  face  familiar  to  the  Past. 

New  mixtures  of  the  elements, 
And  fresh  espousals  of  the  soul  and  sense, 

At  first  disguise 

The  unconjectured  Genius  to  our  eyes, 
Till  self-nursed  faith  and  self -encouraged  power 

Win  the  despotic  hour 
That  hids  our  doubting  race  accept  and  recognize  ! 


Ah,  who  shall  say  what  cloud  of  disregard, 
Cast  by  the  savage  ancient  fame 
Of  some  forgotten  name, 
Mantled  the  Chian  bard  ? 
He  walked  beside  the  strong,  prophetic  sea, 
Indifferent  as  itself,  and  nobly  free ; 
While  roll  of  waves  and  rhythmic  sound  of  oars 

Along  Ionian  shores, 

To  Troy's  high  story  chimed  in  undertone, 
And  gave  his  song  the  accent  of  their  own  ! 
What  classic  ghost  severe  was  summoned  up 
To  threaten  Dante,  when  the  bitter  bread 

Of  exile  on  his  board  was  spread, 
The  bitter  wine  of  bounty  filled  his  cup  ? 
We  need  not  ask  :  the  unpropitious  years, 

The  hale  of  Guelf,  the  lordly  sneers 
Of  Delia  Scala's  court,  the  Roman  ban, 
Were  but  as  eddying  dust 
To  his  firm-centred  trust; 
For  through  that  air  without  a  star 
Burned  one  unwavering  beacon  from  afar, 
That  kept  him  his  and  ours,  the  stern,  immortal  man ! 
What  courtier,  stuffed  with  smooth,  accepted  lore 

Of  Song's  patrician  line, 

But  shrugged  his  velvet  shoulders  all  the  more, 
And  heard,  with  bland,  indulgent  face, 

As  who  bestows  a  grace, 

The  homely  phrase  that  Shakespeare  made  divine  ? 
So,  now,  the  dainty  souls  that  crave 


GOETHE.  227 

Light  stepping-stones  across  a  shallow  wave, 
Shrink  from  the  deeps  of  Goe-the's  soundless  song ! 

So,  now,  the  weak,  imperfect  fire 
That  knows  but  half  of  passion  and  desire 
Betrays  itself,  to  do  the  Master  wrong ;  — 
Turns,  dazzled  by  his  white,  uncolored  glow, 
And  deems  his  sevenfold  heat  the  wintry  flash  of  snow ! 


Fate,  like  a  grudging  child, 

Herself  once  reconciled 
To  power  by  loss,  by  suffering  to  fame ; 

Weighing  the  Poet's  name 
With  blindness,  exile,  want,  and  aims  denied ; 
Or  let  faint  spirits  perish  in  their  pride  ; 
Or  gave  her  justice  when  its  need  had  died ; 

But  as  if  weary  she 
Of  struggle  crowned  by  victory, 
Him  with  the  largesse  of  her  gifts  she  tried  ! 

Proud  beauty  to  the  boy  she  gave  : 
A  lip  that  bubbled  song,  yet  lured  the  bee  ; 
An  eye  of  light,  a  forehead  pure  and  free  ; 
Strength  as  of  streams,  and  grace  as  of  the  wave  ! 

Round  him  the  morning  air 
Of  life  she  charmed,  and  made  his  pathway  fair ; 

Lent  Love  her  lightest  chain, 
That  laid  no  bondage  on  the  haughty  brain, 
And  cheapened  honors  with  a  new  disdain  : 

Kept,  through  the  shocks  of  Time ; 
For  him  the  haven  of  a  peace  sublime, 

And  let  his  sight  foreran 
The  sown  achievement,  to  the  harvest  won  ! 


But  Fortune's  darling  stood  unspoiled : 

Caressing  Love  and  Pleasure, 
He  let  not  go  the  imperishable  treasure : 
He  thought,  and  sported ;  carolled  free,  and  toiled 
He  stretched  wide  arms  to  clasp  the  joy  of  Earth, 

But  delved  in  every  field 
Of  knowledge,  conquering  all  clear  worth 
Of  action,  that  ennobles  through  the  sense 

Of  wholly  used  intelligence  : 
From  loftiest  pinnacles,  that  shone  revealed 
In  pure  poetic  ether,  he  could  bend 
To  win  the  little  store 
Of  humblest  Labor's  lore, 

And  give  each  face  of  Life  the  greeting  of  a  friend ! 
He  taught,  and  governed,  —  knew  the  thankless  days 

Of  service  and  dispraise ; 
He  followed  Science  on  her  stony  ways  ; 
He  turned  from  princely  state  to  heed 

The  single  nature's  need, 
And,  through  the  chill  of  hostile  years, 
Never  unlearned  the  noble  shame  of  tears  ! 
Faced  by  fulfilled  Ideals,  he  aspired 


228  ODES. 


To  win  the  perished  secret  of  their  grace,  — 
To  dower  the  earnest  children  of  a  race 
Toil  never  tamed,  nor  acquisition  tired, 
With  Freedom  born  of  Beauty  !  —  and  for  them 

His  Titan  soul  combined 

The  passions  of  the  mind, 
Which  blood  and  time  so  long  had  held  apart, 
Till  the  white  blossom  of  the  Grecian  Art 
The  world  saw  shine  once  more,  upon  a  Gothic  stem ! 


His  measure  would  we  mete  ? 
It  is  a  sea  that  murmurs  at  our  feet. 

Wait,  first,  upon  the  strand: 

A  far  shore  glimmers  —  "  knowest  thou  the  land  ?  " 
Whence  these  gay  flowers  that  breathe  beside  the  water  1 

Ask  thou  the  Erl-King's  daughter  ! 
It  is  no  cloud  that  darkens  thus  the  shore : 
Faust  on  his  mantle  passes  o'er. 
The  water  roars,  the  water  heaves, 

The  trembling  waves  divide  : 
A  shape  of  beauty,  rising,  cleaves 

The  green  translucent  tide. 
The  shape  is  a  charm,  the  voice  is  a  spell ; 
We  yield,  and  dip  in  the  gentle  swell. 
Then  billowy  arms  our  limbs  entwine, 
And,  chill  as  the  hidden  heat  of  wine, 
We  meet  the  shock  of  the  sturdy  brine ; 
And  we  feel,  beneath  the  surface-flow, 
The  tug  of  the  powerful  undertow, 

That  ceaselessly  gathers  and  sweeps 
To  broader  surges  and  darker  deeps  ; 
Till,  faint  and  breathless,  we  can  but  float 
Idly,  and  listen  to  many  a  note 
From  horns  of  the  Tritons  flung  afar  ; 

And  see,  on  the  watery  rim, 

The  circling  Dorides  swim, 
And  Cypris,  poised  on  her  dove-drawn  car  ! 

Torn  from  the  deepest  caves, 

Sea-blooms  brighten  the  waves  : 
The  breaker  throws  pearls  on  the  sand, 
And  inlets  pierce  to  the  heart  of  the  land, 

Winding  by  dorf  and  mill, 
Where  the  shores  are  green  and  the  waters  still, 

And  the  force,  but  now  so  wild, 
Mirrors  the  maiden  and  sports  with  the  child ! 
Spent  from  the  sea,  we  gain  its  brink, 

With  soul  aroused  and  limbs  aflame : 
Half  are  we  drawn,  and  half  we  sink, 

But  rise  no  more  the  same. 


O  meadows  threaded  by  the  silver  Main ! 

O  Saxon  hills  of  pine, 
Witch-haunted  Hartz,  and  thou, 

Deep  vale  of  Ilmsnau ! 


GOETHE.  229 


Ye  knew  your  poet ;  and  not  only  ye : 

The  purple  Tyrrhene  Sea 
Not  murmurs  Virgil  less,  but  him  the  more ; 
The  Lar  of  haughty  Rome 
Gave  the  high  guest  a  home : 
He  dwells  with  Tasso  on  Sorrento's  shore  1 
The  dewy  wild-rose  of  his  German  lays, 
Beside  the  classic  cyclamen, 

In  many  a  Sabine  glen, 
Sweetens  the  calm  Italian  days. 
But  pass  the  hoary  ridge  of  Lebanon, 

To  where  the  sacred  sun 
Beams  on  Schiraz ;  and  lo !  before  the  gates, 

Goethe,  the  heir  of  Hafiz,  waits. 
Know  ye  the  turbaned  brow,  the  Persian  guise, 
The  bearded  lips,  the  deep  yet  laughing  eyes? 
A  cadence  strange  and  strong 
Fills  each  voluptuous  song, 
And  kindles  energy  from  old  repose ; 
Even  as  first,  amid  the  throes 

Of  the  unquiet  West, 
He  breathed  repose  to  heal  the  old  unrest ! 


Dear  is  the  Minstrel,  yet  the  Man  is  more ; 
But  should  I  turn  the  pages  of  his  brain, 
The  lighter  muscle  of  my  verse  would  strain 

And  break  beneath  his  lore. 
How  charge  with  music  powers  so  vast  and  free, 

Save  one  be  great  as  he  1 
Behold  him,  as  ye  jostle  with  the  throng 
Through  narrow  ways,  that  do  your  beings  wrong, 
Self-chosen  lanes,  wherein  ye  press 

In  louder  Storm  and  Stress, 
Passing  the  lesser  bounty  by 
Because  the  greater  seems  too  high, 
And  that  sublimest  joy  forego, 

To  seek,  aspire,  and  know ! 
Behold  in  him,  since  our  strong  line  began, 

The  first  full-statured  man  ! 
Dear  is  the  Minstrel,  even  to  hearts  of  prose  ; 
But  he  who  sets  all  aspiration  free 

Is  dearer  to  humanity. 

Still  through  our  age  the  shadowy  Leader  goes ; 
Still  whispers  cheer,  or  waves  his  warning  sign ; 

The  man  who,  most  of  men, 
Heeded  the  parable  from  lips  divine, 

And  made  one  talent  ten  1 


230  ODES. 


THE  NATIONAL  ODE. 

INDEPENDENCE  SQUABE,  PHILADELPHIA,  JULY  4,  1876k 

I.  —  1. 

SUN  of  the  stately  Day 
Let  Asia  into  the  shadow  drift, 
Let  Europe  bask  in  thy  ripened  ray, 
And  over  the  severing  ocean  lift 
A  brow  of  broader  splendor  ! 
Give  light  to  the  eager  eyes 
Of  the  Land  that  waits  to  behold  thee  rise ; 
The  gladness  of  morning  lend  her, 
With  the  triumph  of  noon  attend  her, 
And  the  peace  of  the  vesper  skies  ! 

For,  lo  !  she  cometh  now 
With  hope  on  the  lip  and  pride  on  the  brow, 
Stronger,  and  dearer,  and  fairer, 
To  smile  on  the  love  we  bear  her,  — 
To  live,  as  \ve  dreamed  her  and  sought  her, 

Liberty's  latest  daughter ! 
In  the  clefts  of  the  rocks,  in  the  secret  places, 

We  found  her  traces  ; 
On  the  hills,  in  the  crash  of  woods  that  fall, 

We  heard  her  call ; 
When  the  lines  of  battle  broke, 
We  saw  her  face  in  the  fiery  smoke  ; 
Through  toil,  and  anguish,  and  desolation, 

We  followed,  and  found  her 

With  the  grace  of  a  virgin  Nation 

As  a  sacred  zone  around  her ! 

Who  shnll  rejoice 
With  a  righteous  voice, 
Far-henrd  through  the  ages,  if  not  she  ? 

For  the  menace  is  dumb  that  defied  her, 
The  doubt  is  dead  that  denied  her, 
And  she  stands  acknowledged,  and  strong,  and  free  , 

II.— 1. 

Ah,  hark  !  the  solemn  undertone, 
On  every  wind  of  human  story  blown. 

A  large,  divinely-moulded  Fate 
Questions  the  right  and  purpose  of  a  State, 
And  in  its  plan  sublime 

Our  eras  are  the  dust  of  Time. 

The  far-off  Yesterday  of  power 
Creeps  back  with  stealthy  feet, 

Invades  the  lordship  of  the  hour, 
And  at  our  banquet  takes  the  unbidden  seat. 
From  all  vmchronicled  and  silent  ages 
Before  the  Future  first  begot  the  Past, 

Till  History  dared,  at  last, 
To  write  eternal  words  on  granite  pages ; 
From  Egypt's  tawny  drift,  and  Assur's  mound, 

And  where,  uplifted  white  and  far, 


THE  NATIONAL   ODE.  231 

Earth  highest  yearns  to  meet  a  star, 
And  Man  his  manhood  by  the  Ganges  found,  — 
Imperial  heads,  of  old  millennial  sway, 

And  still  by  some  pale  splendor  crowned, 
Chill  as  a  corpse-light  in  our  full-orbed  day, 

In  ghostly  grandeur  rise 
And  say,  through  stony  lips  and  vacant  eyes : 
"  Thou  that  assertest  freedom,  power,  and  fame, 
Declare  to  us  thy  claim  ! " 

I.— 2. 

On  the  shores  of  a  Continent  cast, 

She  won  the  inviolate  soil 
By  loss  of  heirdom  of  all  the  Past, 
And  faith  in  the  royal  right  of  Toil ! 
She  planted  homes  on  the  savage  sod  : 
Into  the  wilderness  lone 
She  walked  with  fearless  feet, 
In  her  hand  the  divining-rod, 
Till  the  veins  of  the  mountains  beat 
With  fire  of  metal  and  force  of  stone ! 
She  set  the  speed  of  the  river-head 

To  turn  the  mills  of  her  bread ; 
She  drove  her  ploughshare  deep 
Through  the  prairie's  thousand-centuried  sleep 
To  the  South,  and  West,  and  North, 
She  called  Pathfinder  forth, 
Her  faithful  and  sole  companion 
Where  the  flushed  Sierra,  snow-starred, 
Her  way  to  the -sun  set  barred, 
And  the  nameless  rivers  in  thunder  and  foam 
Channelled  the  terrible  canyon  ! 
Nor  paused,  till  her  uttermost  home 
Was  built,  in  the  smile  of  a  softer  sky 
And  the  glory  of  beauty  still  to  be, 
Where  the  haunted  waves  of  Asia  die 
On  the  strand  of  the  world-wide  sea  ! 

II.— 2. 

The  race,  in  conquering, 
Some  fierce,  Titanic  joy  of  conquest  knows ; 

Whether  in  veins  of  serf  or  king, 
Our  ancient  blood  beats  restless  in  repose. 

Challenge  of  Nature  unsubdued 
Awaits  not  Man's  defiant  answer  long  ; 

For  hardship,  even  as  wrong, 
Provokes  the  level-eyed  heroic  mood. 
This  for  herself  she  did ;  but  that  which  lies, 

As  over  earth  the  skies, 
Blending  all  forms  in  one  benignant  glow,  — 

Crowned  conscience,  tender  care, 
Justice  that  answers  every  bondman's  prayer, 
Freedom  where  Faith  may  lead  and  Thought  may  dare, 

The  power  of  minds  that  know, 

Passion  of  hearts  that  feel, 

Purchased  by  blood  and  woe, 

Guarded  by  fire  and  steel,  — 


232  ODES. 


Hath  she  secured  ?     What  blazon  on  her  shield, 
In  the  clear  Century's  light 
Shines  to  the  world  revealed, 

Declaring  nobler  triumph,  born  of  Right  ? 

I.  — 3. 

Foreseen  in  the  vision  of  sages, 

Foretold  when  martyrs  bled, 
She  was  born  of  the  longing  of  ages, 
By  the  truth  of  the  noble  dead 
And  the  faith  of  the  living  fed  1 
No  blood  in  her  lightest  veins 
Frets  at  remembered  chains, 
Nor  shame  of  bondage  has  bowed  her  head. 
In  her  form  and  features  still 
The  unblenching  Puritan  will, 
Cavalier  honor,  Huguenot  grace, 
The  Quaker  truth  and  sweetness, 
And  the  strength  of  the  danger-girdled  race 
Of  Holland,  blend  in  a  proud  completeness. 
From  the  homes  of  all,  where  her  being  began, 
She  took  what  she  gave  to  Man ; 
Justice,  that  knew  no  station, 

Belief,  as  soul  decreed, 
Free  air  for  aspiration, 
Free  force  for  independent  deed ! 

She  takes,  but  to  give  again, 
As  the  sea  returns  the  rivers  in  rain  ; 
And  gathers  the  chosen  of  her  seed 
From  the  hunted  of  every  crown  and  creed. 
Her  Germany  dwells  by  a  gentler  Rhine  ; 
Her  Ireland  sees  the  old  sunburst  shine ; 
Her  France  pursues  some  dream  divine ; 
Her  Norway  keeps  his  mountain  pine ; 
Her  Italy  waits  by  the  western  brine  ; 

And,  broad-based  under  all, 
IH  planted  England's  oaken-hearted  mood, 

As  rich  in  fortitude 
As  e'er  went  worldward  from  the  island-wall ! 

Fused  in  her  candid  light, 
To  one  strong  race  all  races  here  unite : 
Tongues  melt  in  hers,  hereditary  foemen 
Forget  their  sword  and  slogan,  kith  and  clan  : 

'T  was  glory,  once,  to  be  a  Roman  : 
She  makes  it  glory,  now,  to  be  a  man  ! 

II.  —  3. 

Bow  down ! 
Doff  thine  seonian  crown  ! 

One  hour  forget 
The  glory,  and  recall  the  debt : 
Make  expiation, 
Of  humbler  mood, 
For  the  pride  of  thine  exultation 
O'er  peril  conquered  and  strife  subdued ! 
But  half  the  right  is  wrested 

When  victory  yields  her  prize. 


THE  NATIONAL   ODE.  283 

And  half  the  marrow  tested 

When  old  endurance  dies. 
In  the  sight  of  them  that  love  thee. 
Bow  to  the  Greater  above  thee ! 

He  faileth  not  to  smite 
The  idle  ownership  of  Right, 
Nor  spares  to  sinews  fresh  from  trial, 
And  virtue  schooled  in  long  denial, 

The  tests  that  wait  for  thee 
In  larger  perils  of  prosperity. 

Here,  at  the  Century's  awful  shrine, 
Bow  to  thy  Father's  God,  and  thine  I 

I.  — 4. 

Behold  !  she  bendeth  now, 
Humbling  the  chaplet  of  her  hundred  yean : 
There  is  a  solemn  sweetness  on  her  brow, 
And  in  her  eyes  are  sacred  tears. 

Can  she  forget, 

In  present  joy,  the  burden  of  her  debt, 
When  for  a  captive  race 
She  grandly  staked,  and  won, 
The  total  promise  of  her  power  begun, 

And  bared  her  bosom's  grace 
To  the  sharp  wound  that  inly  tortures  yet  ? 

Can  she  forget 
The  million  graves  her  young  devotion  set, 

The  hands  that  clasp  above, 
From  either  side,  in  sad,  returning  love  ? 

Can  she  forget, 
Here,  where  the  Ruler  of  to-day, 

The  Citizen  of  to-morrow, 
And  equal  thousands  to  rejoice  and  pray 

Beside  these  holy  walls  are  met, 
Her  birth-cry,  mixed  of  keenest  bliss  and  sorrow  • 
Where,  on  July's  immortal  morn 
Held  forth,  the  People  saw  her  head 
And  shouted  to  the  world :  "  The  King  is  dead, 

But,   lo  !  the  Heir  is  born  !  " 
When  fire  of  Youth,  and  sober  trust  of  Age, 
In  Farmer,  Soldier,  Priest,  and  Sage, 

Arose  and  cast  upon  her 
Baptismal  garments,  —  never  robes  so  fair 

Clad  prince  in  Old- World  air,  — 
Their  lives,  their  fortunes,  and  their  sacred  honor ! 

H.  —  4. 

Arise !     Recrown  thy  head, 
Radiant  with  blessing  of  the  Dead ! 

Bear  from  this  hallowed  place 
The  prayer  that  purifies  thy  lips, 
The  light  of  courage  that  defies  eclipse, 
The  rose  of  Man's  new  morning  on  thy  face ! 

Let  no  iconoclast 

Invade  thy  rising  Pantheon  of  the  Past, 
To  make  a  blank  where  Adams  stood, 


234  ODES. 


To  touch  the  Father's  sheathed  and  sacred  blade, 
Spoil  crowns  on  Jefferson  and  Franklin  laid, 
Or  wash  from  Freedom's  feet  the  stain  of  Lincoln's  blood ! 
Hearken,  as  from  that  haunted  Hall 

Their  voices  call : 
"  We  lived  and  died  for  thee  ; 
We  greatly  dared  that  thou  might'st  be: 

So,  from  thy  children  still 
We  claim  denials  which  at  last  fulfil, 
And  freedom  yielded  to  preserve  thee  free  1 

Beside  clear-hearted  Right 
That  smiles  at  Power's  uplifted  rod, 

Plant  Duties  that  requite, 
And  Order  that  sustains,  upon  thy  sod, 

And  stand  in  stainless  might 
Above  all  self,  and  only  less  than  God  ! 

III.  —  1. 

Here  may  thy  solemn  challenge  end, 
All-proving  Past,  and  each  discordance  die 

Of  doubtful  augury, 
Or  in  one  choral  with  the  Present  blend, 
And  that  half-heard,  sweet  harmony 
Of  something  nobler  that  our  sons  may  see  ! 

Though  poignant  memories  burn 
Of  days  that  were,  and  may  again  return, 
When  thy  fleet  foot,  O  Huntress  of  the  Woods, 
The  slippery  brinks  of  clanger  knew, 

And  dim  the  eyesight  grew 
That  was  so  sure  in  thiue  old  solitudes,  — 

Yet  stays  some  richer  sense 
Won  from  the  mixture  of  thine  elements, 

To  guide  the  vagrant  scheme, 
And  winnow  truth  from  each  conflicting  dream  ! 

Yet  in  thy  blood  shall  live 
Some  force  unspent,  some  essence  primitive, 
To  seize  the  highest  use  of  things ; 
For  Fate,  to  mould  thee  to  her  plan, 

Denied  thee  food  of  kings, 
Withheld  the  udder  and  the  orchard-fruits, 

Fed  thee  with  savage  roots, 
And  forced  thy  harsher  milk  from  barren  breasts  of  man    j 

III.  —  2. 

O  sacred  Woman-Form, 
Of  the  first  People's  need  and  passion  wrought,  — 

No  thin,  pale  ghost  of  Thought, 
But  fair  as  Morning  and  as  heart's-blood  warm,  — 
Wearing  thy  priestly  tiar  on  Judah's  hills ; 
Clear-eyed  beneath  Athene's  helm  of  gold  ; 

Or  from  Rome's  central  seat 
Hearing  the  pulses  of  the  Continents  beat 
In  thunder  where  her  legions  rolled; 
Compact  of  high  heroic  hearts  and  wills, 

Whose  being  circles  all . 
The  selfless  aims  of  men,  and  all  fulfils ; 


THE   OBSEQUIES  IN  ROME.  235 

Thyself  not  free,  so  long  as  one  is  thrall ; 
Goddess,  that  as  a  Nation  lives, 

And  as  a  Nation  dies, 
That  for  her  children  as  a  man  defies, 
And  to  her  children  as  a  mother  gives,  — 

Take  our  fresh  fealty  now ! 
No  more  a  Chieftainess,  with  wampum-zone 

And  feather-cinctured  brow,  — 
No  more  a  new  Britannia,  grown 
To  spread  an  equal  banner  to  the  breeze, 
And  lift  thy  trident  o'er  the  double  seas ; 

But  with  unborrowed  crest, 
In  thine  own  native  beauty  dressed,  — 
The  front  of  pure  command,  the  unflinching  eye,  thine  own ! 

III. —3. 

Look  up,  look  forth,  and  on  ! 

There  's  light  in  the  dawning  sky  : 
The  clouds  are  parting,  the  night  is  gone : 

Prepare  for  the  work  of  the  day ! 

Fallow  thy  pastures  lie, 

And  far  thy  shepherds  stray, 
And  the  fields  of  thy  vast  domain 

Are  waiting  for  purer  seed 

Of  knowledge,  desire,  and  deed, 
For  keener  sunshine  and  mellower  rain ! 

But  keep  thy  garments  pure : 
Pluck  them  back,  with  the  old  disdain, 

From  touch  of  the  hands  that  stain ! 

So  shall  thy  strength  endure. 
Transmute  into  good  the  gold  of  Gain, 
Compel  to  beauty  thy  ruder  powers, 

Till  the  bounty  of  coming  hours 

Shall  plant,  on  thy  fields  apart, 
With  the  oak  of  Toil,  the  rose  of  Art ! 

Be  watchful,  and  keep  us  so  : 

Be  strong,  and  fear  no  foe  : 

Be  just,  and  the  world  shall  know ! 
With  the  same  love  love  us,  as  we  give ; 

And  the  day  shall  never  come, 

That  finds  us  weak  or  dumb 

To  join  and  smite  and  cry 
In  the  great  task,  for  thee  to  die, 
And  the  greater  task,  for  thee  to  live  ! 

THE  OBSEQUIES  IN  ROME. 
JANUARY  17,  1878. 


VICTOR  EMANUEL  !  —  of  prophetic  name, 

Who,  crowned  in  sore  defeat, 
Caught  out  of  blood,  disaster,  and  retreat, 
With  wounded  hands,  a  soldier's  simple  fame,  • 

Content,  had  that  been  all, 
And  most  content,  victoriously  to  fall :  — 
Life  saved  thee  for  a  people's  holiest  aim, 


236  ODES. 


And  leaves  thee  VICTOR,  in  thy  pall ! 
"  GOD  WITH  us  "  may  that  people  say, 
Who  walk  hehind  thy  conquering  dust,  to-day: 

Yea,  all  thine  Italy 
Made  one,  at  last,  and  proudly  free, 
Blesses  thy  sire's  baptismal  prophecy  I 


Since,  over-coarse  to  he  the  Empire's  lord, 

Herulian  Odoaker  fell 

Among  spilled  goblets,  by  the  Gothic  sword, 
In  old  Ravenna's  palace  citadel ; 

And,  after  him,  Theodoric  strove 
To  own  the  laud  he  could  not  choose  but  love;  — 
And  both,  from  no  deficiency  of  power, 

But  failing  heart  and  brain 
That  might  revivify  the  beauty  slain, 
Builded  barbaric  thrones  for  one  brief  hour;  — 

Since,  in  a  glorious  vision  cast 
By  some  narcotic  opiate  of  the  Past, 

Kienzi  sought  to  be 
Brutus  in  deed,  Ccesar  in  victory,  — 

The  Italy,  that  once  was  Rome, 
Dismembered,  sighed  for  her  deliverance, 

Saw  her  Republics  die, 
Leaned  vainly  on  the  broken  reed  of  France, 

Till,  when  despair  seemed  nigh, 
She  knew  herself,  and,  starting  from  her  trance, 
Summoned  the  Victor,  who  hath  led  her  home ! 


He  knew  his  people,  and  his  soul  was  strong 

To  wait  till  they  knew  him : 
The  hand  that  holds  a  sceptre  dare  not  shake 
From  the  quick  blood  that  burns  at  every  wrong. 

With  Europe  watchful,  cold  and  grim 
Behind  him,  and  the  triple-hooded  snake 

Coiled  in  his  path,  he  went 

Through  changing  gusts  of  donbt  and  discontent, 
Till  all  he  could  have  dreamed  of,  came  to  him ! 

But  now  his  people  know  him  !  —  now, 
Since  Death's  pure  coronet  is  on  his  brow, 

Italian  eyes  are  dim  ! 
Now  to  her  ancient  glories  sovereign  Rome 

Adds  one  more  glory :  sorrow  falls 
O'er  all  the  circuit  of  the  Aurelian  walls, — 
Even  from  Moutorio  on  Saint  Peter's  dome : 
And  where  on  warm  Pamfili-Dorian  meads 

Fresh  dew  the  daisy  feeds ; 
And  breathes  in  every  tall  Eorghese  pine, 

And  moans  on  Aventine ; 
And  —  could  the  voice  of  all  desire  awake 
That  once  was  loud  for  Italy's  dear  sake,  — 
A  hymn  would  burst  from  each  dumb  burial-stone 
Beside  the  Cestian  pyramid, 
Where  Keats's,  Shelley's  dust  is  hid, 
In  dithyrambic  triumph  o'er  his  own  1 


EPICEDIUM.  237 


Who  walk  behind  his  bier  ? 
Behold  the  solemn  phantoms  !  —  who  are  they, 
The  stern  precursors  that  arise,  to-day, 

Breathing  of  many  a  fiery  year 
And  clad  in  draper^  of  a  darker  time  ? 

These  are  the  dead  who  saw, 
Too  soon,  the  world's  diviner  law,  — 
Too  early  dreamed  their  people's  dream  sublime  ! 
He  follows  them,  who  lived  to  make  that  dream 

A  principle  supreme, 
Dome-browed  Mazzini,  —  he,  who  planted  sure 

Its  corner-stone,  Cavour ! 
Then,  first  among  the  living,  that  gray  chief 
Who  wears,  at  last,  his  Roman  laurel's  leaf, 
To  conquer  which  he  rent  and  shattered  down 

His  rich  Sicilian  crown. 
Ah,  bend  thee,  Garibaldi !  —  be  not  loth 
To  trust  the  son  of  him  thou  gav'st  a  land, 

Or  kiss  the  stainless  hand 
Of  her  whose  name  is  pearl  and  daisy  both ! 

Such  love,  to-day,  thy  people  give 
To  him  who  died,  such  trust  to  them  who  live. 


Cunning  nor  Force  shall  overthrow 
The  State  whose  fabric  has  been  builded  so. 

Under  the  Pantheon's  dome, 
The  undying  Victor  still  shall  reign 
O'er  one  free  land  that  dare  not  feel  a  chain,  — • 

Whose  mighty  heart  is  Rome ! 
Still,  from  the  ramparts  of  the  Rhastian  snow, 
Far  down  the  realms  of  corn  and  wine, 

Back-boned  by  Apennine, 
To  capes  that  breast  the  warm  Calabrian  Sea, 

A  single  race  shall  know 
One  love,  one  right,  one  loyalty :  — 
Still  from  his  ashes  Italy  shall  grow, 
Who  made  her  Italy  1 


EPICEDIUM. 

WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT. 
I. 

SAT,  who  shall  mourn  him  first, 
Who  sang  in  days  for  Song  so  evil-starred, 
Shielding  from  adverse  winds  the  flame  he  nursed,- 

Our  Country's  earliest  Bard  1 

For  all  "he  sang  survives 

In  stream,  and  tree,  and  bird,  and  mountain-crest, 
And  consecration  of  uplifted  lives 

To  Duty's  stern  behest; 
Till,  like  an  echo  falling  late  and  far 


288  ODES. 


As  unto  Earth  the  answer  from  a  star, 
Along  his  thought's  so  nigh  unnoted  track 

Our  people's  heart  o'ertakes 
His  pure  design,  and  hears  him,  and  awakes 

To  breathe  its  music  hack  ! 
Approach,  sad  Forms,  now  fitly  to  employ 
The  grave,  sweet  stops  of  all  melodious  sound, 

Yet  undertoned  with  joy  ; 
For  him  ye  lose,  at  last  is  truly  found. 


Scarce  darkened  by  the  shadow  of  these  hours, 

The  Manitou  of  Flowers, 
Crowned  with  the  Painted-cup,  that  shakes 
Its  gleam  of  war-paint  on  his  dusky  cheek, 

Goes  by,  but  cannot  speak ; 
Yet  tear  or  dew-drop  'ueath  his  coronal  breaks, 

And  in  his  drooping  hand 
The  azure  eyelids  of  the  gentian  die 
That  loves  the  yellow  autumn  land; 
The  wind-flower,  golden-rod, 
With  phlox  and  orchis,  nod  ; 
And  every  blossom  frail  and  shy 
No  careless  loiterer  sees, 
But  poet,  sun  and  breeze, 

And  the  bright  countenance  of  our  western  sky. 
They  know  who  loved  them  ;  they,  if  all 

Forgot  to  dress  his  pall, 
Or  strew  his  couch  of  long  repose, 
Would  from  the  prairies  and  the  central  snows 

The  sighing  west-wind  call, 
Their  withered  petals,  even  as  tears,  to  bear, 

And,  like  a  Niobe  of  air, 
Upon  his  sea-side  grave  to  let  them  fall ! 


Next  you,  ye  many  Streams, 
That  make  a  music  through  his  cold  green  land ! 

Whether  ye  scour  the  granite  slides 
In  broken  spray-light  or  in  sheeted  gleams, 

Or  in  dark  basins  stand, 
Your  bard's  fond  spirit  in  your  own  abides. 

Not  yours  the  wail  of  woe, 
Whose  joy  is  in  your  wild  and  wanton  flow,  — 

Chill,  beautiful  Undines 

That  flash  white  hands  behind  your  thicket-screens, 
And  charm  the  wildwood  and  the  cloven  flumes 

To  hide  you  in  their  glooms ! 
But  he  hath  kissed  you,  and  his  lips  betray 
Your  coyest  secrets  ;  now,  no  more 
Your  bickering,  winking  tides  shall  stray 

Through  August's  idle  day, 

Or  showered  with  leaves  from  brown  November's  floor, 
Untamed,  and  rich  in  mystery 

As  ye  were  wont  to  be  ! 
From  where  the  dells  of  Greylock  feed 


EPICEDIUM.  239 

Your  thin,  young  life,  to  where  the  Sangamon 
Breaks  with  his  winding  green  the  Westein  mead, 

Delay  to  hasten  on  ! 

Ask  not  the  clouds  and  hills 
To  swell  the  veins  of  your  obedient  rills, 
And  hrim  your  banks  with  turbid  overflow ; 

But  calmly,  soothly  go, 
Soft  as  a  sigh  and  limpid  as  a  tear, 

So  that  ye  seem  to  borrow 

The  voice  and  the  visage  of  sorrow, 
For  he  gave  you  glory  and  made  you  dear ! 


Strong  Winds  and  mighty  Mountains,  sovereign  Sea, 

What  shall  your  dirges  be  ? 
The  slow,  great  billow,  far  down  the  shore, 
Booms  in  its  breaking :  "  Dare  —  and  despair ! " 
The  fetterless  winds,  as  they  gather  and  roar, 
Are  evermore  crying :  "  Where,  oh  where  ?  " 
The  mountain  summits,  with  ages  hoar, 
Say :  "  Near  and  austere,  but  far  and  fair ! " 

Shall  ye  in  your  sorrow  droop, 
Who  are  strong  and  sad,  and  who  cannot  stoop  ? 
Two  may  sing  to  him  where  he  lies, 
But  the  third  is  hidden  behind  the  skies. 

Ye  cannot  take  what  he  stole, 
And  made  his  own  in  his  inmost  soul ! 

The  pulse  of  the  endless  Wave 
Beauty  and  breadth  to  his  strophes  gave ; 

The  Winds  with  their  hands  unseen 
Held  him  poised  at  a  height  serene ; 
And  the  world  that  wooed  him,  he  smiled  to  o'ercome  it ; 

Whose  being  the  Mountains  made  so  strong,  — 
Whose  forehead  arose  like  a  sunlighted  summit 

Over  eyes  that  were  fountains  of  thought  and  song  1 


And  last,  ye  Forms,  with  shrouded  face 

Hiding  the  features  of  your  woe, 
That  on  the  fresh  sod  of  his  burial-place 

Your  myrtle,  oak,  and  laurel  throw,  — 
Who  are  ye  ?  —  whence  your  silent  sorrow  ? 
Strange  is  your  aspect,  alien  your  attire : 

Shall  we,  who  knew  him,  borrow 
Your  unknown  speech  for  Grief's  august  desire  ? 

Lo !  one,  with  lifted  brow 

Says :  "  Nay,  he  knew  and  loved  me  :  I  am  Spain  J ' 
Another :  "  I  am  Germany, 
Drawn  sadly  nearer  now 

By  songs  of  his  and  mine  that  make  one  strain, 
Though  parted  by  the  world-dividing  sea ! " 

And  from  the  hills  of  Greece  there  blew 
A  wind  that  shook  the  olives  of  Peru, 

Till  all  the  world  that  knew, 
Or,  knowing  not,  shall  yet  awake  to  know 
The  sweet  humanity  that  fused  his  song,  — 
The  haughty  challenge  unto  Wrong, 


240  ODES. 


And  for  the  trampled  Truth  his  fearless  blow,  — 

Acknowledge  his  exalted  mood 
Of  faith  achieved  in  song-born  solitude, 

And  give  him  high  acclaim 
With  those  who  followed  Good,  and  found  it  Fame  1 


Ah,  no !  —  why  should  we  mourn 
The  noble  life,  that  wore  its  crown  of  years  ? 
Why  drop  these  tender,  unavailing  tears 
Upon  a  fate  of  no  fulfilment  shorn  ? 

He  was  too  proud  to  seek* 
That  which  should  come  unasked ;  and  came, 
Kindling  and  brightening  as  a  wind-blown  flame 

When  he  had  waited  long, 
And  life  —  but  never  art  —  was  weak, 
But  youthful  will  and  sympathy  were  strong 
In  white-browed  eye  and  hoary-bearded  cheek; 

Until,  when  called  at  last 
That  later  life  to  celebrate, 
Wherein,  dear  Italy,  for  thine  estate, 
The  glorious  Present  joined  the  glorious  Past, 

He  fell,  and  ceased  to  be  ! 
We  could  not  yield  him  grandlier  than  thus, 
When,  for  thy  hero  speaking,  he 

Spake  equally  for  us  !  — 
His  last  word,  as  his  first,  was  Liberty ! 
His  last  word,  as  his  first,  for  Truth 
Struck  to  the  heart  of  age  and  youth: 

He  sought  her  everywhere, 
In  the  loud  city,  forest,  sea,  and  air : 
He  bowed  to  wisdom  other  than  his  own, 
To  wisdom  and  to  law, 
Concealed  or  dimly  shown 
In  all  he  knew  not,  all  he  knew  and  saw, 
Trusting  the  Present,  tolerant  of  the  Past, 

Firm-faithed  in  what  shall  come 
When  the  vain  noises  of  these  days  are  dumb; 
And  his  first  word  was  noble  as  his  last ! 
BERLIN,  September,  18"  3. 


THE 


PICTURE   OF  ST.  JOHN. 


rNTKODTJCTOKY  NOTE. 


IN  regard  to  the  subject  of  this  poem  I  have  nothing  to  say.  It  grew  natu 
rally  out  of  certain  developments  in  my  own  mind  ;  and  the  story,  unsuggested 
by  any  legend  or  detached  incident  whatever,  shaped  itself  to  suit  the  theme. 
The  work  of  time,  written  only  as  its  own  necessity  prompted,  and  finished  with 
the  care  and  conscience  which  such  a  venture  demands,  I  surrender  it  to  the 
judgment  of  the  reader. 

The  form  of  the  stanza  which  I  have  adopted,  however,  requires  a  word  of  ex 
planation.  I  have  endeavored  to  strike  a  middle  course  between  the  almost  inev 
itable  monotony  of  an  unvarying  stanza,  iu  a  poem  of  this  length,  and  the  loose 
character  which  the  heroic  measure  assumes  when  arbitrarily  rhymed,  without 
the  check  of  regularly  recurring  divisions.  It  seemed  to  me  that  this  object 
might  be  best  accomplished  by  adhering  rigidly  to  the  measure  and  limit  of  the 
stanza,  yet  allowing  myself  freedom  of  rhyme  within  that  limit.  The  ottava  rima 
is  undoubtedly  better  adapted  for  the  purposes  of  a  romantic  epic  than  either  the 
Spenserian  stanza  or  the  heroic  couplet ;  but  it  needs  the  element  of  humor  (as 
in  Byron's  "  Don  Juan")  to  relieve  its  uniform  sweetness.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  proper  compactness  and  strength  of  rhythm  can  with  difficulty  be  preserved 
in  a  poem  where  all  form  of  stanza  is  discarded.  My  aim  has  been,  as  far  as  pos 
sible,  to  combine  the  advantages  and  lessen  the  objections  of  both. 

I  know  of  but  one  instance  in  which  the  experiment  has  been  even  partially 
tried,  —  the  "Oberon"  of  Wieland,  wherein  the  rhymes  are  wilfully  varied,  and 
sometimes  the  measure,  the  stanza  almost  invariably  closing  with  an  Alexan 
drine.  In  the  present  case,  I  have  been  unable  to  detect  any  prohibitory  rule  in 
the  genius  of  our  language ;  and  the  only  doubt  which  suggested  itself  to  my 
mind  was  that  the  ear,  becoming  swiftly  accustomed  to  the  arrangement  of  rhyme 
in  one  stanza,  might  expect  to  find  it  reproduced  in  the  next.  I  believe,  however, 
that  such  disappointment,  if  it  should  now  and  then  occur,  will  be  very  transi 
tory, —  that  even  an  unusually  delicate  ear  will  soon  adjust  itself  to  the  changing 
order,  and  find  that  the  varied  harmony  at  which  I  have  aimed  (imperfectly  as  I 
may  have  succeeded)  compensates  for  the  lack  of  regularity.  At  times,  I  con 
fess,  the  temptation  to  close  with  an  Alexandrine  was  very  great ;  but  it  was 
necessary  to  balance  the  one  apparent  license  by  a  rigid  adherence  to  the  custom 
ary  form  in  all  other  respects.  Hence,  also,  I  have  endeavored,  as  frequently  as 
possible,  to  use  but  three  rhymes  in  a  stanza,  in  order  to  strengthen  my  experi 
ment  with  an  increased  effect  of  melody.  I  have  found,  since  the  completion  of 
the  poem,  that  it  contains  more  than  seventy  variations  in  the  order  of  rhyme, 
not  all  of  which,  of  course,  can  be  pronounced  equally  agreeable :  nor  does  this 
freedom  involve  less  labor  than  a  single  form  of  stanza,  because  the  variations 
must  be  so  arranged  as  to  relieve  and  support  each  other.  My  object  has  been, 
not  to  escape  the  laws  which  Poetry  imposes,  but  to  select  a  form  which  givea 
greater  appearance  of  unrestrained  movement,  and  more  readily  reflects  the  va 
rying  moods  of  the  poem. 


PEOEM. 


TO  THE  ARTISTS. 


BECAUSE  no  other  dream  my  childhood  knew 
Than  your  bright  Goddess  sends,  —  that  earliest 
Her  face  I  saw,  and  from  her  bounteous  breast, 
All  others  dry,  the  earliest  nurture  drew; 
And  since  the  hope,  so  lovely,  was  not  true, 
To  write  my  life  in  colors,  —  win  a  place 
Among  your  ranks,  though  humble,  yet  with  grace 
That  might  accord  me  brotherhood  with  you : 


Because  the  dream,  thus  cherished,  gave  my  life 
Its  first  faint  sense  of  beauty,  and  became, 
Even  when  the  growing  years  to  other  strife 
Led  forth  my  feet,  a  shy,  secluded  flame  : 
And  ye  received  me,  when  our  pathways  met, 
As  one  long  parted,  but  of  kindred  fate ; 
And  in  one  heaven  our  kindred  stars  are  set ; 
To  you,  my  Brethren,  this  be  dedicate  ! 


And  though  some  sportive  nymph  the  channel  turned, 

And  led  to  other  fields  mine  infant  rill, 

The  sense  of  fancied  destination  still 

Leaps  in  its  waves,  and  will  not  be  unlearned. 

I  charge  not  Fate  with  having  done  me  wrong  ; 

Much  hath  she  granted,  though  so  much  was  spurned  ; 

But  leave  the  keys  of  Color,  silent  long, 

And  pour  my  being  through  the  stops  of  Song  I 


Even  as  one  breath  the  organ-pipe  compels 

To  yield  that  note  which  through  the  minster  swells 

In  chorded  thunder,  and  the  hollow  lyre 

Beneath  its  gentler  touches  to  awake 

The  airy  monotones  that  fan  desire, 

And  thrills  the  fife  with  blood  of  battle,  —  so 

Our  natures  from  one  source  their  music  take, 

And  side  by  side  to  one  far  Beauty  flow  ! 


246  PROEM. 


And  I  have  measured,  in  fraternal  pride, 
Your  reverence,  your  faith,  your  patient  power 
Of  stern  self-abnegation ;  and  have  tried 
The  range  between  your  brightest,  darkest  hour, 
The  path  of  chill  ne'glect,  and  that  so  fair 
With  praise  upspringing  like  a  wind-sown  flower : 
But,  whether  thorns  or  amaranths  ye  wear, 
Your  speech  is  mine,  your  sacrifice,  your  prayer ! 


Permit  me,  therefore,  ye  who  nearest  stand, 
Among  the  worthiest,  and  kindliest  known 
In  contact  of  our  lives,  to  take  the  hand 
Whose  grasp  assures  me  I  am  not  alone  ; 
For  thus  companioned,  I  shall  find  the  tone 
Of  flowing  song,  and  all  my  breath  command. 
Your  names  I  veil  from  those  who  should  not  see , 
Not  from  yourselves,  my  Friends,  and  not  from  me  I 


You,  underneath  whose  brush  the  autumn  day 
Draws  near  the  sunset  which  it  never  finds,  — 
Whose  art  the  smoke  of  Indian  Summer  binds 
Beyond  the  west-wind's  power  to  breathe  away: 
Who  fix  the  breakers  in  their  gifted  grace 
And  stretch  the  sea-horizon,  dim  and  gray, 
I  '11  call  you  OPAL,  —  so  your  tints  enchase 
The  pearly  atmospheres  wherein  they  play. 


And  you,  who  love  the  brown  October  field, 

The  lingering  leaves  that  flutter  as  they  cling, 

And  each  forlorn  but  ever-lovely  thing,  — 

To  whom  elegiac  Autumn  hath  revealed 

Her  sweetest  dirges,  BLOODSTONE  :  for  the  hue 

Of  sombre  meadows  to  your  palette  cleaves, 

And  lowering  skies,  with  sunlight  breaking  through, 

And  flecks  of  crimson  on  the  scattered  leaves  ! 


You,  TOPAZ,  clasp  the  full-blown  opulence 
Of  Summer :  many  a  misty  mountain-range 
Or  smoky  valley,  specked  with  warrior-tents, 
Basks  on  your  canvas  :  then,  with  grander  change, 
We  climb  to  where  your  mountain  twilight  gleams 
In  spectral  pomp,  or  nurse  the  easeful  sense 
Which  through  your  Golden  Day  forever  dreams 
By  lakes  and  sunny  hills,  and  falling  streams. 


You  banish  color  from  your  cheerful  cell, 
O  PAROS  !  but  a  stern  imperial  form 


PROEM.  247 


Stands  in  the  marble  moonlight  where  you  dwell, 
A  Poet's  head,  with  grand  Ionian  beard, 
And  Phidian  dreams,  that  shine  against  the  storm 
Of  toilful  life,  the  white  robe  o'er  them  cast 
Of  breathless  Beauty:  yours  the  art,  endeared 
To  men  and  gods,  first  born,  enduring  last. 


You,  too,  whom  how  to  name  I  may  not  guess, 

Except  the  jacinth  and  the  ruby,  blent, 

The  native  warmth  of  life  mijrht  represent, 

Which,  drawn  from  barns  and  homesteads,  you  express. 

Or  vintage  revels,  round  the  maple-tree  ; 

Or  when  the  dusky  race  you  quaintly  dress 

In  art  that  gives  them  finer  liberty,  — 

Made  by  your  pencil,  ere  by  battle,  free  ! 


Where'er  my  feet  have  strayed,  whatever  shore 

I  visit,  there  your  venturous  footprints  cling. 

From  Chimborazo  unto  Labrador 

One  sweeps  the  Continent  with  eagle  wing, 

To  dip  his  brush  in  tropic  noon,' or  fires 

Of  Arctic  night ;  one  sets  his  seal  upon 

Far  Colorado's  cleft,  colossal  spires, 

And  lone,  snow-kindled  cones  of  Oregon ! 


Another  through  the  mystic  moonlight  floats 
That  silvers  Venice ;  and  another  sees 
The  blazoned  galleys  and  the  gilded  boats 
Bring  home  her  Doges  :  Andalusian  leas, 
Gray  olive-slopes,  and  mountains  sun-embrowned 
Entice  another,  and  from  ruder  ground 
Of  old  Westphalian  homes  another  brings 
Enchanted  memories  of  the  meanest  things. 


To  each  and  all,  the  hand  of  fellowship  ! 
A  poet's  homage  (should  that  title  fall 
From  other  lips  than  mine)  to  each  and  all ! 
For,  whether  this  pale  star  of  Song  shall  dip 
To  swift  forgetfulness,  or  burn  beside 
Accepted  lamps  of  Art's  high  festival, 
Its  flame  was  kindled  at  our  shrines  allitd, 
In  double  faith,  and  from  a  twofold  call  i 


THE  PIOTUEE  OF  ST.  JOKN 


BOOK  I. 
THE  ARTIST. 


COMPLETE  the  altar  stands :  my  task  is 
done. 

Awhile  from  sacred  toil  and  silent  prayer 

I  rest,  and  never  shone  the  vale  so  fair 

As  now,  beneath  the  mellow  autumn 
sun, 

And  overbrcathed  by  tinted  autumn  air  ! 

In  drowsy  murmurs  slide  the  mountain 
rills, 

And,  save  of  light,  the  whole  wide  heav 
en  is  bare 

Above  the  happy  slumber  of  the  hills. 


Here,  as  a  traveller  whose  feet  have 

clomb 
A  weary  mountain-slope,   may  choose 

his  seat, 
And  resting,   track    the  ways   that  he 

hath  come,  — 

The  broken  landscapes,  level  far  below, 
The  turf  that  kissed,  the  flints  that  tore 

his  feet, 
And  each  dim  speck  that  once  was  bliss 

or  woe,  — 
I  breathe  a  space,  between  two  sundered 

lives, 

And  view  what  now  is  ended,  what  sur 
vives. 


Such  as  I  am,  I  am :  in  soul  and  sense 
Distinct,  existing  in  my  separate  right, 
And    though    a    Power,    beyond    my 

clouded  sight, 

Spun  from   a  thousand  gathered   fila 
ments 

My  cord  of  life,  within  its  inmost  core 
That  life  is  mine  :  its  torture,  its  delight, 


Repeat  not  those  that  ever  were  before 
Or  ever  shall  be:  mine  are  Day  and 

Night. 


God  gives  to  most  an  order  which  sup 
plies 
Their  passive  substance,  and  they  move 

therein. 
To  some  He  grants  the  beating  wings 

that  rise 

In  endless  aspiration,  till  they  win 
An  awful  vision  of  a  deeper  sin 
And  loftier  virtue,  other  earth  and  skies  : 
And  those  their  common  help  from  each 

may  draw, 

But  these  must  perish,  save  they  find 
the  law. 


Vain  to  evade  and  useless  to  bewail 
My  fortune !     One  among  the  scattered 

few 

Ami:  by  sharper  lightning,  sweeter  dew 
Refreshed   or    blasted,  —  on  a  wilder 

gale 
Caught  up  and  whirled  aloft,  till,  hither 

borne, 

My  story  pauses.    Ere  I  drop  the  veil 
Once  let  me  take  the  Past  in  calm  le- 

view, 
Then  eastward  turn,  and  front  the  riper 

morn. 


What  sire  begat  me,  and  what  mother 

nursed, 
"What  hills  the  blue  frontiers  of  Earth  I 

thought, 
Or  how  my  young  ambition  scaled  them 

first, 
It  matters  not :  but  I  was  finely  wrought 


250 


THE  PICTURE   OF  ST.   JOHN. 


Beyond  their  elements  from  whom  I 

came. 
A  nimbler  life  informed   mine  infant 

frame  : 
The  gauzy  wings   some  Psyche-fancy 

taught 
To  flutter,  soulless  custom  could  not 

tame. 


Our  state  was  humble,  —  yet  above  the 

dust, 
If  deep  below  the  stars,  —  the  state  that 

feeds 

Impatience,  hinting  yet  denying  needs, 
And   thus,   on   one   side   ever  forward 

thrust 

And  on  the  other  cruelly  repressed, 
My  nature  grew,  — a  wild-flower  in  the 

weeds,  — 
A.nd  hurt  by  ignorant  love,  that  fain 

had  blessed, 
I  sought  some  other  bliss  wherein  to  rest. 


And,  wandering  forth,  a  child  that  could 

not  know 
The  thing  for  which  he  pined,  in  sombre 

woods 

And  echo-haunted  mountain-solitudes 
I  learned  a  rapture  from  the   blended 

show 
Of  form   and  color,  felt   the  soul  that 

broods 
In  lonely  scenes,  the  moods  that  come 

and  go 
O'er  wayward  Nature,  making  her  the 

haunt 
Of  Art's    forerunner,    Love's    eternal 

want- 


Long  ere  the  growing  instinct  reached 

my  hand, 
It  filled  my  brain  :  a  pang  of  joy  was 

born, 

When,  soft  as  dew,  across  the  dewy  land 
Of  Summer,  leaned  the  crystal-hearted 

Morn; 
And    when    the    lessening    day   shone 

yellow-cold 
On  fallow  glebe  and  stubble,  I  would 

stand 

And  feel  a  dumb  despair  its  wings  un 
fold, 
A.nd  wring  my  hands,  and  weep  as  one 

forlorn. 


At  first  in  play,  but  soon  with  heat  and 

stir 
Of  joy  that  hails  discovered  power,  I 

tried 
To  mimic  form,  and  taught  mine  eye  to 

guide 
The   unskilled  fingers.     Praise  became 

a  spur 

To  overtake  success,  for  in  that  vale 
The  simple  people's  wonder  did  not  fail, 
Nor  vulgar  prophecies,  which  yet  confer 
The  first  delicious  thrills  of  faith   and 

pride. 


So,  as  on  shining  pinions  lifted  o'er 
The  perilous  bridge  of  boyhood,  I  ad 
vanced. 

In  warmer  air  the  misty  Maenads  danced, 
And  Sirens  sang  on  many  a  rising  shore, 
And  Glory's  handmaids  beckoned  me  to 

choose 
The  freshest   of  the  unworn  wreaths 

they  bore ; 
So  gracious  Fortune  showed,  so  fair  the 

hues 

Wherewith  she  paints   her  cloud-built 
avenues ! 


Ere  up  through  all  this  airy  ecstasy 
The  clamorous  pulses  of  the  senses  beat, 
And  half  the  twofold   man,  maturing 

first, 
Usurped  its  share  of  life,  and  bade  me 

see 
The  ways  of  pleasure  opening  for  my 

feet, 
I  stood  alone  :  the  tender  breast  that 

nursed, 
The  loins  from  whence  I  sprang,  alike 

were  cold, 
And  mine  the  humble  roof,  the  scanty 

gold. 


The  pale,  cold  azure  of  my  mountain 
sky 

Became  a  darkness :  Arber's  head  un 
shorn 

No  temple  crowned,  —  not  here  could 
fame  be  born  ; 

And,  nor  with  gold%nor  knowledgft 
weighted,  I 

Set  forth,  and  o'er  the  green  Bavarian 
land, 


,  THE   ARTIST. 


251 


A  happy  wanderer,  fared :  the  hour  was 

nigh 
When,   in   the   home  of  Art,  my  feet 

should  stand 
Where  Time  and  Power  have  kissed  the 

Painter's  hand ! 


Oh,  sweet  it  was,  when,  from  that  bleak 
abode 

Where  avalanches  grind  the  pines  to 
dust, 

And  crouching  glaciers  down  the  hol 
lows  thrust 

Their  glittering  claws,  I  took  the  sun 
ward  road, 

Making  my  guide  the  torrent,  that  be 
fore 

My  steps  ran  shouting,  giddy  with  its 

i°y» 

And  tossed  its  white  hands  like  a  game 
some  boy, 

And  sprayed  its  rainbow  frolics  o'er  and 
o'er ! 


Full-orbed,  in  rosy  dusk,  the   perfect 

moon 
That  evening  shone  :  the  torrent's  noise, 

afar, 
No  longer  menaced,  but  with   mellow 

tune 

Sang  to  the  twinkle  of  a  silver  star, 
Above  the  opening  valley.     "  Italy  !  " 
The  moon,  the  star,  the  torrent,  said  to 

me,  — 
"  Sleep  Ufou  in  peace,  the  morning  will 

unbar 
These  Alpine  gates,  and  give  thy  world 

to  thee ! " 


And  morning  did  unfold  the  jutting  capes 
Oi  chestnut-wooded  hills,  that  held  em- 


Warm  coves  of  fruit,  the  pine's  JEolian 

shade, 
Or  pillared  bowers,  blue  with  suspended 

grapes  ;  — 
A  land  whose  forms  some  livelier  grace 

betrayed  ; 
Where  motion  sang  and  cheerful  color 

laughed, 
And  only  gloomed,  amid   the  dancing 

shapes 
Of  vine  and  bough,  the  pointed  cypress- 

shaft  ! 


On,  —  on,  through  broadening  vale  and 

brightening  sun 

I  walked,  and  hoary  in  their  old  repose 
The   olives   twinkled :  many  a  terrace 

rose, 
With    marbles    crowned    and  jasmine 

overrun, 
And  orchards  where  the  ivory  silk-worm 

spun. 

On  leafy  palms  outspread,  its  pulpy  fruit 
The  fig-tree  held ;  and  last,  the  charm 

to  close, 
A  dark-eyed  shepherd  piped  a  reedy 

flute. 


My  heart  beat  loud :  I  walked  as  in  a 

dream 
Where  simplest  actions,  touched  with 

marvel,  seem 

Enchanted  yet  familiar    for  I  knew 
The  orchards,  terraSes,  and   breathing 

flowers, 
The  tree  from  Adam's  garden,  and  the 

blue 
Sweet    sky    behind    the    light    aerial 

towers ; 
And  that  young  faun  that  piped,  had 

piped  before,  — 
I  knew  my  home :  the  exile  now  was 

o'er ! 


And  when  the  third  rich  day  declined 

his  lids, 

I  floated  where  the  emerald  waters  fold 
Gem-gardens,  fairy  island-pyramids, 
Whereon  the  orange  hangs  his  globes  of 

gold,  — 
Which  aloes  crown  with  white,  colossal 

plume, 

Above  the  beds  where  lavish  Nature  bids 
Her  sylphs  of  odor  endless  revel  hold. 
Her  zones  of  flowers  in  balmy  congress 

bloom ! 


I  hailed  them  all,  and  hailed  beyond,  the 

plain  ; 

The  pal  ace -fronts,  on  distant  hills  uplift. 
White  as  the  morning-star ;  the  streams 

that  drift 

In  sandy  channels  to  the  Adrian  main  : 
Till  one  still  eve,  with  duplicated  stain 
Of  crimson  sky  and  wave,  disclosed  to 


252 


THE   PICTURE    OF   ST.   JOHN. 


The  domes  of  Venice,  anchored  on  the 

sea, 
Far-off,  —  an  airy  city  of  the  brain  ! 


Forth  from   the    shores  of  Earth  we 

seemed  to  float,     • 
Drawn  by  that  vision,  —  hardly  felt  the 

breeze 

That  left  one  glassy  ripple  from  the  boat 
To  break  the  smoothness  of  the  silken 

seas ; 
And  far  and  near,  as  from  the  lucent 

air, 
Came    vesper    chimes    and    wave-born 

melodies. 
So  might  one  die,  if  Death  his  soul  could 

bear  * 

So  gently,  Heaven  before  him  float  so 

fair ! 


This  was  the  gate  to  Artists'  Fairyland. 

The  palpitating  waters  kissed  the  shores, 

Gurgled  in  sparkling  coils  beneath  the 
oars, 

And  lapped  the  marble  stairs  on  either 
hand, 

Summoning  Beauty  to  her  holiday  ; 

While  noiseless  gondolas  at  palace-doors 

Waited,  and  over  all,  in  charmed  de 
lay, 

San  Marco's  moon  gazed  from  her 
golden  stand ! 


A  silent  city !  where  no  clattering  wheels 

Jar  the  white  pavement :  cool  the  streets, 
and  dumb, 

Save  for  a  million  whispering  waves, 
which  come 

To  light  their  mellow  darkness  :  where 
the  peals 

Of  Trade's  harsh  clarions  never  vex  the 
ear, 

But  the  wide  blue  above,  the  green  be 
low, 

Her  pure  Palladian  palaces  insphere,  — 

Piles,  on  whose  steps  the  grass  shall 
never  grow  I 


1  sat  within  the  courts  of  Veronese 
And  saw  his  figures  breathe  luxurious 


And  felt  the  sunshine  of  their  lustrous 
hair. 

Beneath  the  shade  of  Titian's  awful 
trees 

I  stood,  and  watched  the  Martyr's  brow 
grow  cold : 

Then  came  Giorgione,  with  his  brush  of 
gold, 

To  paint  the  dames  that  make  his  mem 
ory  fair,  — 

The  happy  dames  that  never  shall  be 
old! 


But  most  I  lingered  in  that  matchless 

hall 
Where   soars    Madonna  with    adoring 

arms 
Outspread,  while  deepening  glories  round 

her  fall, 

And  every  feature  of  her  mortal  charms 
Becomes  immortal,  at  the  Father's  call : 
Beneath  her,  silver-shining  cherubs  fold 
The  clouds  that  bear  her,  slowly  heav 
enward  rolled : 
The  Sacred  Mystery  broodeth  over  all ! 


And  still,  as  one  asleep,  I  turned  away 
To  see  the  crimson  of  her  mantle  burn 
In  sunset  clouds,  the  pearly  deeps  of 

day 
Filled  with    cherubic    faces,  —  ah,    to 

spurn 

My  hopeless  charts  of  pictures  yet  to  be, 
And  feed  the  fancies  of  a  swift  despair, 
Which  mocked  me  from  the  azure  arch 

of  air, 
And  from  the   twinkling   beryl  of   the 

sea! 


If  this  bright  bloom  were  inaccessible 
Which  clad   the  world,  and   thus   my 

senses  stung, 
How  could  I  catch   the  mingled   tints 

.  that  clung 
To  cheek  and  throat,  and  softly  do \vu- 

ward  fell 
In  poise  of  shoulders  and  the  breathing 

swell 
Of  woman's  bosom  ?     How  the  life  in 

eyes, 
The  glory  on   the  loosened   hair  that 

lies, 
The   nameless    music   o'er    her    beingr 

flung? 


THE  ARTIST. 


253 


Or  how  create  anew  the  sterner  grace 
In   man's   heroic  muscles   sheathed  or 

shown, 
Whether  he  stoops  from  the  immortal 

zone 

Bare  and  majestic,  god  in  limbs  and  face ; 
Or  lies,  a  faun,   beside   his  mountain 

flock ; 
Or  clasps,  a  satyr,  nymphs  among  the 

vine ; 

Or  kneels,  a  hermit,  in  his  cell  of  rock; 
Or  sees,  a  saint,  his  palms  of  glory  shine ! 


I  took  a  fisher  from  the  Lido's  strand, 
A  youthful  shape,  by  toil  and  vice  un 
worn, 

Upon  his  limbs  a  golden  flush  like  morn, 
And  on  his  mellow  cheek    the   roses 

-tanned 
Of  health  and  joy.    Perchance  the  soul 

I  missed, 

From  mine  exalted  fancy  might  be  born : 
With  eye  upraised  and  locks  by  sunshine 

kissed, 
I  painted  him  as  the  Evangelist. 


In  vain! — the  severance  of  his  lips  ex 
pressed 

Kisses  of  love  whereon  his  fancy  fed, 

And  the  warm  tints  each  other  sweetly 
wed 

In  slender  limb  and  balanced  arch  of 
breast, 

So  keen  with  life,  so  marked  in  every 
line 

With  unideal  nature,  none  had  guessed 

The  dream  that  cheered  me  and  the 
faith  that  led  ; 

But  human  all  I  would  have  made  di- 


I  found  a  girl  before  San  Marco's  shrine 
Kneeling  in  gilded  gloom :  her  tawny 

hair 
Rippled    across    voluptuous    shoulders 

bare, 

And  something  in  the  altar-taper's  shine 
Sparkled  like  falling  tears.     This  girl 

shall  be 

My    sorrowing    Magdalen,   as    guilty- 
sweet, 


I  said,  as  when,  pure  Christ !  she  knelt 

to  thee, 
And  laid  her  blushing  forehead  on  thy 

feet! 


She  sat  before  me.    Like  a  sunny  brook 

Poured  the  unbraided  ripples  softly 
round 

The  balmy  dells,  but  left  one  snowy 
mound 

Bare  in  its  beauty:  then  I  met  her 
look,  — 

The  conquering  gaze  of  those  bold  eyes, 
which  made, 

Ah,  God  !  the  unrepented  sin  more  fair 

Than  Magdalen  kneeling  with  her  hum 
bled  hair, 

Or  Agatha  beneath  the  quaestor's  blade ! 


What  if  my  chaste   ambition  wavered 

then  ? 
What  if  the  veil  from  mine  own  nature 

fell 

And  I  obeyed  the  old  Circean  spell, 
And  lived  for  living,  not  for  painted  men  ? 
Youth  follows  Life,  as  bees  the  honey 

bell, 
And  nightingales  the  northward  march 

of  Spring, 
And  once,  a  dazzled  moth,  must  try  his 

wing, 
Though  but  to  scorch  it  in  the  blaze  of 

Hell! 


Why  only  mimic  what  I  might  possess  ? 

The  cheated  sense  that  revels  in  delight 

Mocked  at  my  long  denial :  touch  and 
sight, 

The  warmth  of  wine,  the  sensuous  love 
liness 

Of  offered  lips  and  bosoms  breaking 
through 

The  parted  boddice :  winds  whose  faint 
caress 

And  wandering  hands  the  daintiest 
dreams  renew : 

The  sea's  absorbing  and  embracing  blue : 


Of  these  are  woven  our  being's  outward 

veil 
Of  rich  sensation,  which  has  power  to 

part 


254 


THE  PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN. 


The  pure,  untroubled  soul  and  drunken 

heart,  — 

A  screen  of  gossamer,  but  giants  fail 
The  bright,  enchanted  web  to  rend  in 

twain. 
Two  spirits  dwell  in  us :  one  chaste  and 

pale, 
A  still  recluse,  whose  garments  know  no 

stain, 
Whose  patient  lips  are  closed  upon  her 

pain : 


The  other  bounding  to  her  cymbal's 
clang, 

A  bold  Bacchante,  panting  with  the  race 

Of  joy,  the  triumph  and  the  swift  em 
brace, 

And  gathering  in  one  cup  the  grapes 
that  hang 

From  every  vine  of  Youth :  around  her 
head 

The  royal  roses  bare  their  hearts  of  red ; 

Music  is  on  her  lips,  and  from  her  face 

Fierce  freedom  shines  and  wild,  allur 
ing  grace ! 


Who  shall  declare  that  ever  side  by  side 
To  weave  harmonious  fate  these  spirits 

wrought  ? 

To  whom  came  ever  one's  diviner  pride 
And  one's  full  measure  of  delight,  un 
sought  ? 
Who  dares  the  cells  of  blood  enrich, 

exhaust, 

Or  trust  his  fortune  unto  either  guide  ?  — 
So  interbalanced  hangs  the  equal  cost 
Of  what    is   ordered    and  of  what  is 
taught ! 


Surprised  to  Passion,  my  awakened  life 

Whirled  onward  in  a  warm,  delirious 
maze, 

At  first  reluctant,  and  with  pangs  of 
strife 

That  dashed  their  bitter  o'er  my  honeyed 
days, 

Until  my  soul's  affrighted  nun  withdrew 

And  left  me  free  :  for  light  that  other's 
chains 

AJB  garlands  seemed,  and  fresh  her  wine 
as  dew, 

4nd  ivide  her  robee  to  hide  the  banquet- 
stains  1 


Those  were  the  days  of  Summe:  which 

intrude 
Their   sultry  fervor  on  the  realm  of 

Spring, 

And  push  its  buds  to  sudden  blossom 
ing  ; 
When  earth  and  air,  with  panting  love 

imbued, 
O'erpower  the  subject  life,  and  ceaseless 

dart 
All   round    the   warm  horizon  of    the 

heart 
Heat-lightnings  in   the  sky   of  youth, 

which  first 
Regains   its  freshness  when  the   bolts 

have  burst. 


And  thus,  when  that  Sirocco's   breath 

had  passed, 
A  refluent  wind  of  health  swept  o'er  my 

brain, 
Cold,  swift,  and  searching ;  and  before 

it  fast 
Fled  the  uncertain,  misty  shapes  which 

cast 
Their  glory  on  my  dreams.     The  ardor 

vain 
That  would   have  snatched,  unearned, 

slow  labor's  crown, 
Was  dimmed  ;   and  half  with  courage, 

half  with  pain, 

I  guessed  the  path  that  led  to  old  re 
nown. 


I  turned  my  pictures,  pitying  the  while 
My  boyish  folly,  for  I  could  not  yet 
The  dear  deception  of  my  youth  forget, 
And  though  it  parted  from  me  like  an 

isle 
Of  the  blue  sea  behind  some  rushing 

keel, 
Still  from  the  cliffs  its  temple  seemed  to 

smile, 

Fairer  in  fading :  future  morns  reveal 
No  bowers  so  bright  as  yesterdays  con 
ceal. 


The  laughing  boys  that  on  the  marble 

piers 
Lounge  with  their  dangling  feet  above 

the  wave ; 
The  tawny  faces  of  the  gondoliers ; 


THE   ARTIST. 


255 


The  low-browed  girl,  whose  scarce-un 
folded  years 

But  half  the  lightning  of  her  glances 
gave ;  — 

I  sketched  in  turn,  with  busy  hand  and 
brave, 

And  crushed  my  clouded  hope's  recur 
ring  pang, 

And  sweet  "  Ti  voglio  bene  assa'i "  sang. 


Then  came  the  hour  when  I  must  say 

.  farewell 

To  silent  Venice  in  her  crystal  nest,  — 
When  with  the  last  peals  of  San  Marco's 

bell 
Her     hushed    and     splendid     pageant 

closed,  and  fell 

Like  her  own  jewel  in  the  ocean's  breast. 
Belfry,  and  dome,  and  the  superb  array 
Of  wave-born  temples  floated  far  away, 
And  the  dull  shores  received  me  in  the 

west. 


And  past  the  Eugansean  hills,  that  break 
The  Adrian  plain,  I  wandered  to  the  Fo, 
And  saw  Ferrara,  vacant  in  her  woe, 
Clasp  the  dim  cell  wherein  her  children 

take 
A   ghastly   pride    from    her   immortal 

shame ; 

And  hailed  Bologna,  for  Caracci's  sake, — 
The  master  bold,  who  scorned  to  court 

his  fame, 
But  bared  his  arm  and  dipped  his  brush 

in  flame. 


Through  many  a  dark-red  dell  of  Apen- 

nine, 
With  chestnut-shadows  in  its  brookless 

bed, 

By  flinty  slopes  whose  only  dew  is  wine, 
And  hills  the  olives  gave  a  hoary  head, 
I  climbed  to  seek  the  sunny  vale  where 

flows 
The  Tuscan  river,  —  where,  when  Art 

was  dead, 
Lorenzo's  spring  thawed  out  the  ages' 

snows, 
A.nd  green  •srith  life  the  eternal  plant 

arose ! 


At  last,  from  Pratolino's  sloping  crest, 
I  saw  tb3  far,  aerial,  purple  gleam, 


As  from  Earth's  edge  a  fairer  orb  might 
seem 

In  softer  air  and  sunnier  beauty  drest, 

And  onward  swift  with  panting  bosom 
pressed, 

Like  one  whose  wavering  will  pursues  a 
dream 

And  shrinks  from  waking ;  but  the  vis 
ion  grew 

With  every  step  distinct  in  form  and 
hue  : 


Till  on  the  brink  of  ancient  Fiesole*, 

Mute,  breathless,  hanging  o'er  the  daz 
zling  deeps 

Of  broad  Val  d'Arno,  which  the  sinking 
day 

Drowned  in  an  airy  bath  of  rosy  ray, — 

An  atmosphere  more  dream  -  imbued 
than  Sleep's, — 

My  feet  were  stayed;  with  sweet  and 
sudden  tears, 

And  startled  lifting  of  the  cloud  that 
lay 

Upon  the  landscape  of  the  future  years ! 


I  leaned  against  a  cypress-bole,  afraid 
With  blind  foretaste  of  coming  ecstasy, 
So  rarely  on  the  soul  the  joy  to  be 
Prophetic  dawns,  so  frequent  falls  the 

shade 
Of  near  misfortune!     All  my  senses 

sang, 
And  lark-like  soared  and  jubilant  and 

free 

The  flock  of  dreams,  that  from  my  bo 
som  sprang, 
O'er  yonder  towers  to  hover  and  to  hang ! 


Then,  as  the  dusty  road  I  downward 
paced, 

A  phantom  arch  was  ever  builded  nigh 

To  span  my  coming,  luminous  and 
high; 

And  airy  columns,  crowned  with  cen 
sers,  graced 

The  dreamful  pomp,  —  with  many  a 
starry  bell 

From  garlands  woven  in  the  fading  sky, 

And  noiseless  fountains  shimmered,  aa 
they  fell, 

Like  meteor-fires  that  haunt  a  fairy 
dell! 


256 


THE  PICTURE  OF   ST.  JOHN. 


Two  maids,  upon  a  terrace  that  o'er- 

hung 
The  highway,  lightly  strove  in  laughing 

play 
Each  one  the  other's  wreath  to  snatch 

away, 
With  backward-bending  heads,  and  arms 

that  clung 
In    intertwining    beauty.      Both    were 

young, 
And  one   as  my  Madonna-dream  was 

fair; 
And  she  the  garland  from  the  other's 

hair 
Caught  with  a  cunning  hand,  and  poised, 

and  flung. 


A  fragrant  ring  of  jasmine  flowers,  it 

sped, 
Dropping   their  elfin   trumpets    in   its 

flight, 
And  downward  circling,  on  my  startled 

head 

Some  angel  bade  the  diadem  alight ! 
The  cool   green  leaves   and   breathing 

blossoms  white 
Embraced  my  brow  with  dainty,  mute 

caress : 
I  stood   in   rapt  amazement,  soul  and 

sight 
Surrendered  to  that  vision's  loveliness. 


She,  too,  stood,  smitten  with  the  won 
drous  chance 
Whereby   the   freak   of  her  unwitting 

hand 
A  stranger's  forehead  crowned.     I  saw 

her  stand, 
Most  like  some  flying  Hour,  that,  in  her 

dance 
Perceives  a  god,  and  drops  her  courser's 

rein : 
Then,  while  I  drank  the  fulness  of  her 

glance, 
Crept  over  throat  and  cheek  a  bashful 

stain,  — 
She  fled,  yet  flying  turned,  and  looked 

again. 


And  I  went  forward,  consecrated,  blest, 
And  garlanded  like  some  returning  Faun 


From  Pan's  green  revels  in  the  woo2 

land's  breast. 

Here  was  a  crown  to  give  Ambition  rest 
A  wreath  for  infant  Love  to  slumber  on 
And  blended,  both  in  mine  enchantment 

shone, 
Till    Love    was    only    Fame    familiar 

grown, 

And  Fame  but  Love  triumphantly  ex 
pressed  ! 


Such  moments  come  to  all  whom  Art 
elects 

To  serve  her,  —  Poet,  Painter,  Sculptor, 
feel, 

Once  in  their  lives  the  shadows  which 
conceal 

Achievement  lifted,  and  the  world's  neg 
lects 

Are  spurned  behind  them,  like  the  idle 
dust 

Whirled  from  Hyperion's  golden  chariot- 
wheel  : 

Once  vexing  doubt  is  dumb,  and  long 
disgust 

Allayed,  and  Time  and  Fate  and  Fame 
are  just ! 


It  is  enough,  if  underneath  our  rags 
A   single   hour  the   monarch's   purple 

shows. 
In  dearth   of  praise   no  true  ambition 

flags, 

And  by  his  self-belief  the  student  knows 
The  master  :  nor  was  ever  wholly  dark 
The  Artist's  life.  Though  timid  fortune 

lags 
Behind  his  hope,  there  comes  a  day  to 

mark 
The  late  renown  that  round  his  name 

shall  close. 


I  dared  not  question  my  prophetic  pride, 
But  entered  Florence  as  a  conqueror, 
To   whom   should    ope  the    Tribune's 

sacred  door, 

Hearing  his  step  afar.     On  every  side 
Great  works  fed  faith  in  greatness  that 

endured 

Irrecognition,  patient  to  abide 
Neglect    that    stung,   temptaiJons   that 

allured,  — 
Supremely  proud  and  in  itself  secured 


THE  ARTIST. 


257 


From  the  warm  bodies  Titian  loved  to 

paint, 
Where   life  still   palpitates  in  languid 

glow ; 
From  Raphael's  heads  of  Virgin  and  of 

Saint, 
Bright  with  divinest  message ;  from  the 

slow 

And  patient  grandeur  Leonardo  wrought; 
From  soft,  effeminate  Carlo  Dolce,  faint 
With  vapid  sweetness,  to  the  Titan 

thought 
That  shaped  the  dreams  of  Michel  An- 

gelo : 


From    each    and    all,  through    varied 

speech,  I  drew 

One  sole,    immortal   revelation.     They 
No  longer  mocked  me  with  the  hopeless 

view 
Of  power  that  with  them  died,  but  gave 

anew 
The   hope  of   power  that  cannot   pass 

away 
While  Beauty  lives  :  the  passion  of  the 

brain 
Demands  possession,  nor  shall  yearn  in 

vain: 
Its  nymph,  though  coy,  did  never  yet 

betray. 


It  is  not  much  to  earn  the  windy  praise 

That  fans  our  early  promise  :  every 
child 

Wears  childhood's  grace:  in  unbeliev 
ing  days 

One  spark  of  earnest  faith  left  undefiled 

Will  burn  and  brighten  like  the  lamps 
of  old, 

And  men  cry  out  in  haste  :  "  Behold,  a 
star ! " 

Deeming  some  glow-worm  light,  that 
soon  is  cold, 

The  radiant  god's  approaching  avatar ! 


So  I  was  hailed :  and  something  fawn- 
like,  shy, 

Caught  from  the  loneliness  of  mountain- 
glens, 

That  clung  around  me,  drew  the  stran 
ger's  eye 

And  held  my  life  apart  from  other  men's. 
17 


Their  prophecies  were  sweet,  and  if  they 
breathed 

But  ignorant  hope  and  shallow  pleas 
ure,  I 

No  less  from  them  already  saw  be 
queathed 

The  crown  by  avaricious  Glory  wreathed. 


And,   climbing  up    to    San    Miniato's 

height, 

Among  the  cypresses  I  made  a  nest 
For  wandering  fancy :  down  the  shim 
mering  west 

The  Arno  slid  in  creeping  coils  of  light : 
O'er  Boboli's  fan-like  pines  the  city  lay 
In  tints  that  freshly  blossomed  on  the 

sight, 
Enringed  with  olive-orchards,  thin  and 

gray, 
Like  moonlight  falling  in  the  lap  of  day. 


There  sprang,  before  me,  Giotto's  ivory 

tower ; 
There   hung,   a  planet,  Brunelleschi'a 

dome  : 
Of  living  dreams  Val  d'Arno  seemed 

the  home, 
From    far    Careggi's    dim-seen     laurel 

bower 

To  Bellosguardo,  smiling  o'er  the  vale  ; 
And  pomp  and  beauty  and  supremest 

power, 
Blending  and  brightening  in  their  bridai 

hour, 
Made  even  the  blue  of  Tuscan  summers 

pale! 


LXIII. 

Immortal  Masters !     Ye  who  drank  this 

air 
And  made  it  spirit,  as  the  must  makes 

wine, 

Be  ye  the  intercessors  of  my  prayer, 
Pure   Saints  of  Art,  around  her  holy 

shrine ! 
The  purpose  of  your  lives  bestow  on 

mine, — 
The  child-like  heart,  the  true,  laborious 

hand 
And  pious  vision,  —  that  my  soul  may 

dare 
One  day  to  climb  the  summits  where  ye 

stand ! 


258 


THE  PICTUEE  OF   ST.  JOHN. 


Say,  shall  my  memory  walk  in  yonder 
street 

Beside  your  own,  ye  ever-living  shades  ? 

Shall  pilgrims  come,  gray  men  and  pen 
sive  maids, 

To  pluck  this  moss  because  it  knew  my 
feet, 

And  forms  of  mine  move  o'er  the  poet's 
mind 

In  thoughts  that  still  to  haunting  music 
beat, 

And  Love  and  Grief  and  Adoration  find 

Their  speech  in  pictures  I  shall  leave 
behind  1 

LXV. 

Ah !  they,  the  Masters,  toiled  where  I 

but  dreamed ! 
The  crown  was  ready  ere  they  dared  to 

claim 
One  leaf  of  honor :  then,  around  them 

gleamed 
No  Past,  where  rival  souls  of  splendid 

name 
At  once  inspire  and  bring  despair  of 

fame. 
A  naked  heaven  was  o'er  them,  where 

to  set 
Their  kindled  stars ;  and  thus  the  palest 

yet 
Exalted  burns  o'er  all  that  later  came. 


They  unto  me  were  gods :  for,  though  I 

felt 

That  nobler 't  was,  creating,  even  to  fail 
Than  grandly  imitate,  my  spirit  knelt, 
Unquestioning,  to  their  authority. 
I  learned  their  lives,  intent  to  find  a  tale 
Resembling  mine,  and  deemed  my  vision 

free 
When  most  their  names  obscured  with 

flattering  veil 
That  light  of  Art  which  first  arose  in 

me. 


And  less  for  Beauty's  single  sake  in 
spired 

Than  old  interpretations  to  attain, 

I  sought  with  restless  hand  and  heated 
brain 

Vheir  truth  to  reach,  —  by  his  example 
fired 


Who  sketched  his  mountain-goats  on 

rock  or  sand, 
And   his,  the  wondrous    boy,  beneath 

whose  hand, 

Conferring  sanctity  with  sweet  disdain, 
A  cask  became  a  shrine,  a  hut  a  fane. 


My  studio  was  the  street,  the  market 
place  : 

I  snared  the  golden  spirit  of  the  sun 

Amid  his  noonday  freedom, —  swiftly 
won 

The  unconscious  gift  from  many  a  pass 
ing  face,  — 

The  spoils  of  color  caught  from  dazzling 
things, 

From  unsuspecting  forms  the  sudden 
grace, 

Alive  with  hope  to  find  the  hidden  wings 

Of  the  Divine  that  from  the  Human 
springs. 


A  jasmine  garland  hung  above  my 
bed, 

Withered  and  dry :  beneath,  a  picture 
hung,  — 

A  shadowy  likeness  of  the  maid  who 
flung 

That  crown  of  welcome.  On  my  sleep 
ing  head 

The  glory  of  the  vanished  sunset  fell, 

And  still  the  leaves  reviving  fragrance 
shed, 

And  dreams  crept  out  of  every  jasmine- 
bell, 

Inebriate  with  their  fairy  hydromel. 


Where  was  my  lost  Armida  ?     She  had 

grown 
A   phantom   shape,  a  star  of  dreams, 

alone ; 
And   I  no   longer  dared  to  touch  tho 

dim 
Unfinished    features,    lest    my     brush 

should  mar 

A  memory  swift  as  wings  of  cherubim 
That  unto  saints  in  prayer  may  flash 

afar 
Up   the    long   steep    of    rifted    cloudy 

walls, 
Wherethrough  the  overpowering  glorj 

falls. 


THE  ARTIST. 


259 


But,  as  the  Rose  will  lend  its  excellence 
To  the  unlovely  earth  in  which  it  grows, 
Until  the  sweet  earth  says,  "  I  serve  the 

Rose," 

So,  penetrant  with  her  was  every  sense. 
She  filled  me  as  the  moon  a  sleeping 

sea, 
That  shows  the  nigh!  her  orb  reflected 

thence, 

Yet  deems  itself  all  darkness :  silently 
The  dream  of  her  betrayed  itself  in  me. 


1  had  a  cherished  canvas,  whereupon 
An  antique  form  of  inspiration  grew 
To  other  life  :  beneath  a  sky  of  blue, 
Filled  with  the  sun  and  limpid  yet  with 

dawn, 
A  palm-tree  rose  :  its  glittering  leaves 

were  bowed 
As  though    to  let  no  ray  of  sunlight 

through 
Their  folded  shade,  and  kept  the  early 

dew 
On  all  the  flowers  within  its  hovering 

cloud. 


Madonna's  girlish  form,  arrested  there 
With  poising  foot,  and  parted  lips,  and 

eyes 
With  innocent  wonder  bright  and  glad 

surprise, 
And  hands  half -clasped  in  rapture  or  in 

prayer, 
Met  the  Announcing  Angel.     On  her 

sight 
He  burst  in  splendor  from  the  sunny 

air, 

Making  it  dim  around  his  perfect  light, 
And  in  his  hand  the  lily-stem  he  bare. 


Naught    else,   save,   nestling    near  the 

Virgin's  feet, 
A  single  lamb  that  wandered  from  its 

flock, 
And  one  white  dove,  upon  a  splintered 

rock 
Above  the  yawning  valleys,  dim  with 

heat. 

Beyond,  the  rifted  hilis  of  Gilead  flung 
Their  phantom  shadows  on  the  burning 

veil, 


And,  far  away,  one  solitary,  pale 
Vermilion  cloud  above  the  Desert  hung, 

LXXV. 

I  painted  her,  a  budding,  spotless  maid, 
That   has  not  dreamed  of  man,  —  for 

God's  high  choice 

Too  humble,  yet  too  pure  to  be  afraid, 
And  from  the  music  of  the  Angel's  voice 
And  from  the  lily's  breathing  heart  of 

gold 

Inspired  to  feel  the  mystic  beauty  laid 
Upon  her  life  :  the  secret  is  untold, 
Unconsciously  the  message  is  obeyed. 


How  much  I  failed,  myself  alone  could 

know; 
How   much  achieved,  the   world.     My 

picture  took 

Its  place  with  others  in  the  public  show, 
And  many  passed,  and  some  remained 

to  look. 
While    I,    in    flushed   expectancy   and 

fear, 
Stood  by  to  watch  the  gazers  come  and 

S°> 
To  note  each  pausing  face,  perchance  to 

hear 
A  careless  whisper  tell  me  Fame  was 

near. 


"  'T  is  Gtirlandajo's  echo ! "  some  would 

say  ; 
And  others,  "  Here  one  sees  a  pupil's 

hand :  " 
"  An     innovation,    crude,     but    fairly 

planned," 
Remarked  the  connoisseur,  and  moved 

away, 
Sublimely  grave :  but  one,  sometimes, 

would  stand 
Silent,  with  brightening  face.     No  more 

than  this, 
Though  voiceless  praise,  ambition  cou'd 

demand, 
And  for  an  hour  I  felt  the  Artist's  bliss. 


One  day,  a  man  of  haughty  port  drew 
nigh,  — 

A  man  beyond  his  prime,  but  still  un 
bent, 


260 


THE  PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN. 


Though  the  first  flafcjs  of  age  already 
lent 

Their  softness  to  his  brow :  his  wander 
ing  eye 

Allowed  its  stately  patronage  to  glide 

Along  the  pictures,  till,  with  gaze  in 
tent 

He  fixed  on  mine,  and  startled  wonder 
ment 

Displaced  his  air  of  cold,  indifferent 
pride. 

LXXIX. 

"  Signer  Marchese ! "  cried,  approaching, 

one 
Who  seemed  a  courtly  comrade,  "  can  it 

be 
That  in  these  daubs  the  touch  of  Art 

you  see,  — 
These  foreign  moons  that  ape  our  native 

sun  ? " 
To  whom  he  said  :  "  the  Virgin,  Count ! 

'T  is  she, 

My  Clelia  !  like  a  portrait  just  begun, 
"Where  the  design  is  yet  but  half  avowed, 
And  shimmers  on  you  through  a  misty 

cloud  : 


"  So,  here,  I  find  her.     'T  is  a  marvel 
lous  chance. 
Your    painters     choose    some    peasant 

beauty's  face 

For  their  Madonnas,  striving  to  enhance 
By  softer  tints  her  coarse  plebeian  grace 
To  something  heavenly.  Here,  the 

features  wear 
A  noble  stamp  :   who   painted  this,  is 

fit 

That  Clelia'sself  beside  his  canvas  sit,  — 
His    hand,    methinks,    might    fix    her 
shadow  there." 


"'Tis  true, — you  wed  her  then,  as  I 

•have  heard, 
And  to  the  young  Colonna  1 "     "  Even 

so  : 

We  made  the  family  compact  long  ago. 
A  wilful    blade,   they  say,   but    every 

bird 

\s  wiser  when  he  owns  a  nested  mate  ; 
And   I  shall  lose   her  ere   the  winter's 

snow 

Falls  on  the  Apennine,  —  a  father's  fate ! 
But  from  these  two  my  house  again 

may  grow. 


"  She  lost,  her  picture  in  the  lonely  hall 

Shall  speak,  from  silent  lips,  her  sweet 
'  good-night ! ' 

And  soothe  my  childless  fancy.  I'll  in 
vite 

This  painter  to  the  work  :  his  brush  has 
all 

The  graces  of  a  hand  which  takes  de 
light 

In  noble  forms,  —  and  thus  may  best  re 
call, 

Though  nameless  he,  what  Palma's  brush 
divine 

Found  in  the  beauteous  mothers  of  her 
line ! " 


I  heard  ;  but  trembling,  turned  away  to 

hide 

An  ecstasy  no  longer  to  be  quelled, — 
The   lover's    longing    and    the  artist's 

pride  : 
For,  though  the  growing  truth  of  life 

dispelled 

My  rash  ideal,  my  very  blood  had  caught 
The  fine  infection :   from  my  heart   it 

welled, 
Colored   each  feeling,  perfumed   every 

thought, 
And  gave  desire  what  hope  had  left  un 

sought ! 


'T  was  blind,  unthinking  rapture.    Who 

was  she, 
Pandolfo's   daughter,  young  Colonna's 

bride, 
The  pampered   maiden   of   a  house  of 

pride, 
That  I,  though  but  in  thought,  should 

bend  the  knee 
Before  her  beauty?     She  was  set  too 

high, 
And   her   white  lustre   wore  patrician 

stains, 
Like  sunshine  falling  through  heraldic 

panes 
That  rise  between  the  altar  and  the  sky 


Next  day  the  Marquis  came.     With  an- 

tique  air 
Of  nicest  co  irtesy,  his  words  did  sue 


THE   ARTIST. 


261 


his  tone  commanded:  could 

I  spare 
Some  hours'?  —  a  portrait  only,  it  was 

true, 
But  the  Great  Masters  painted  portraits 

too, 

Even  llaffae'llo  :  at  his  palace,  then ! 
The  Lady  Clelia  would  await  me  there  : 
His  thanks, — to-morrow,  should  it  be? 

—  at  ten. 


But  when  the  hour  approached,  and  o'er 

me  hung 

The  shadow  of  the  high  Palladian  walls, 
My  heart  beat  fast  in  feverish  intervals  : 
I  half  drew  back :  the  lackeys  open  flung 
The  brazen  portals,  —  broad  before  me 

rose 
The  marble  stairs,  —  above  them  gleamed 

the  halls, 

And  I  ascended,  as  a  man  who  goes 
To  see  some  unknown  gate  of  life  un 
close. 


They  bore  my  easel  to  a  spacious  room 
Whose   northern   windows   curbed   the 

eager  day, 

But  under  them  a  sunny  garden  lay : 
A  fountain  sprang :  the  myrtles  were  in 

bloom, 
And  I  remembered,  —  "  ere  the  winter's 

snow 

Cloaks  Apennine"  Colonna  bears  away 
Her  who  shall  wear  them.     'T  is  a  wom 
an's  doom, 

I  laughed,  —  she  seeks  no  other :  let  her 
go! 


LXXXVIII. 

Lo  !  rustling  forward  with  a  silken  sound, 
Her  living  self  advanced  !  —  as  fair  and 

frail 

As  May's  first  lily  in  a  Northern  vale, 
As  light  in   airy  grace,  as  when   she 

crowned 
Her  painter's  head,  —  the  Genius  of  my 

Fame ! 
A.h,  words  are  vain  where  Music's  tongue 

would  fail, 


And  Color's  brightest  miracles  be  found 
Imperfect,  cold,  to   match   her  as  «he 
came ! 


The  blood  that  gathered,  stifling,  at  my 

heart, 
Surged  back  again,  and  burned  on  cheek 

and  brow. 
"  Your  model  !  "  smiled  the  Marquis  , 

"  you  '11  avow 

That  she  is  not  unworthy  of  your  art. 
I  see    you    note    the    likeness,  —  it  is 

strange : 

But  since  you  dreamed  her  face  so  near 
ly,  now 
You'll  paint  it,  —  as  she  is,  —  I  want 

no  change : " 
Then  left,  with  wave  of  hand  and  stately 

bow. 


A  girlish  wonder  dawned  in  Clelia's  face. 

Her  frank,  pure  glances  seemed  to  ques 
tion  mine, 

Or  scanned  my  features,  seeking  to  re 
trace 

Her  way  to  me  along  some  gossamer 
line 

Of  memory,  almost  found,  then  lost 
again. 

Meanwhile,  I  set  my  canvas  in  its  place, 

Recalled  the  artist-nature,  though  with 
pain, 

And  tamed  to  work  the  tumult  of  my 
brain. 


"  I  give  you  trouble,"  then  she  gently 

said. 
My  brow  was  damp,  my  hand  unsteady. 

"  Nay," 
I  answered :  "  't  is  the  grateful  price  I 

pay 

For  that  fair  wreath  you  cast  upon  my 

head." 
She  started,  blushing :  all  at  once  she 

found 
The  shining  clew,  — her  silvery  laughter 

made 
The  prelude  to  her  words:  "the  lowers 


But 


will  fade, 
by    your     hand 
crowned ! " 


am    I    forever 


262 


THE  PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN. 


BOOK  II. 

THE   WOMAN. 


OH  give  not  Beauty  to  an  artist's  eye 
And  deem   his  heart,  untroubled,  can 

withstand 
Her  necromancy,  changing  earth   and 

sky 
To  one  wide  net  wherein  her  captives 

lie!  — 
Nor,  since  his  mind  the  measure  takes, 

his  hand 
Essays  the  semblance  of  each  hue  and 

line, 
That   cold  his    pulses  beat,   as   if    he 

scanned 

Her  marble  death  and  not  her  life  di 
vine  ! 


How  could  I  view  the  sombre-shi.ing 

hair 
Without  the  tingling,  passionate  wish 

to  feel 

Its  silken  smoothness  ?    How  the  golden- 
pale 
Pure  oval   of    the   face,  the  forehead 

fair, 
The  light  of  eyes  whose  dusky  depths 

conceal 
Love's  yet  unkindled   torch,  and  wear 

the  mail 

Of  cruel  Art,  that  bade  me  mimic  bliss 
And  only  paint  the  mouth  I  burned  to 

kiss? 


fe.   near,  the  airy  wave  her  voice  set 

free 
fc'mote  warm  against  my  cheek!     So 

near,  I  heard 
The  foldit  that  hid  her  bosom,  as  they 

stirred 
Above  t*ie  heart-beat  measuring  now, 

for  me, 
Life's  oily  music!     Ah,  so  near,  and 

yet 

Between  us  rose  a  wall  I  could  not  see, 
To  dach  me  back,  —  before  the  wings 

that  fret 
For  Ipre's  release,  a  crystal  barrier  set. 


I  kissed,  in  thought,  each  clear,  delicious 
tint 

That  lured  my  mocking  hand  :  my  pas 
sion  flung 

Its  lurking  sweetness  over  every  print 

Of  the  soft  brush  that  to  her  beauty 
clung, 

And  fondled  while  it  toiled,  —  and  day 
by  day 

The  canvas  brightened  with  her  bright 
ening  face  : 

The  artist  gloried  in  the  picture's  grace, 

But,  ah  !  the  lover's  chances  lapsed 
away. 


And  now,  —  the  last !  The  grapes  al 
ready  wore 

Victorious  -lurple,  ere  their  trodden 
death , 

The  olives  darkened  through  their 
branches  hoar, 

And  from  below  the  tuberose's  breath 

Died-  round  the  casement,  from  the  spicy 
shore 

Of  ripened  summer,  passionate  as  the 
sigh 

I  stifled  :  and  my  heart  said,  —  "  Speak 
or  die ! 

The  moment's  fate  stands  fixed  forever- 
more." 


The  naked   glare   of   breezeless   after 
noon 
Dazzled  without:  the  garden  swooned 

in  heat. 
The  old  duenna  drooped  her  head,  and 

soon 
Behind  the  curtain  slumbered  in   her 

seat. 
Within  my  breast  the  crowded,  panting 

beat 
Disturbed  my  hand  :  the  pencil  fell :  I 

turned, 
And  with  imploring  eyes  and  tears  that 

burned 
Sank  in  despairing  silence  at  her  feet. 


THE   WOMAN. 


26S 


I  did  not  dare  look  up,  but  knelt,  as 
waits 

A  foiled  tyrannicide  the  headsman's 
blow  : 

At  first  a  frightened  hush,  —  the 
stealthy,  slow, 

Soft  rustle  of  her  dress,  —  a  step  like 
Fate's 

To  crown  or  smite  :  but  now  descended, 
where 

Her  garland  fell,  her  hand  upon  my 
hair, 

And,  light  as  floating  leaf  of  orchard- 
snow 

Looted  by  the  pulse  of  Spring,  it  trem 
bled  there. 


Then  I  looked  up,  —  Oh,  grace  of  God ! 

to  feel 
Her  answering  tears  like  dew  upon  my 

brow; 
To  touch  and  kiss  her  blessing  hand; 

to  seal 

Without  a  word  the  one  eternal  vow 
Of  man  and  woman,  when  their  lives 

unite 
Thenceforth    forever,   soul    and    body 

shared, 
Like  those  the  Grecian  goddess,  pitying, 

paired 

To  form  the  young,  divine  Hermaphro 
dite. 


I  breathed  "  You  do  not  love  Colonna  ?  " 
"  No," 

She  whispered,  "  aid  me,  I  am  yours  to 
save ! " 

"  I  yours  to  help,  your  lover  and  your 
slave,  — 

My  soul,  my  blood  is  yours,"  I  mur 
mured  low. 

The  old  duenna  stirred :  "  when  ?  where1? 
one  hour 

For  your  commands  ! "  As  hurriedly 
she  gave 

Reply  :  "The  garden,  —  yonder  dark 
est  bower, 

When  midnight  tolls  frcm  Santa  Croce's 
tower ! " 


Ere  the  immortal  light  had  time  to  fade 
In  cither's  eyes,  the  old  Marchese  came. 


I  veiled,  in  toil,  the  flush  that  still  be 
trayed, 

And  Clelia,  strong  to  hide  her  maiden 
shame, 

The  motion  of  her  father's  hand  obeyed 

And  left  us.  Gravely  he  my  work  sur 
veyed  : 

"  'T  is  done,  I  think,  —  't  is  she,  indeed," 
he  said : 

"  'T  was  time,"  he  muttered,  as  he  turned 
his  head. 


I  bowed  in  silence,  took  his  offered  gold, 
And   down   the  marble  stairs,  through 

doors  that  cried, 
On   scornful   hinges,   of  their  owner's 

pride, 
Passed  on  my  way  :  my  happy  heart  did 

fold 

Pandolfo's  treasure  in  its  secret  hold, 
And  every  bell  that  chimed  the  feeble 

day 
Down  to  its  crimson  burial,  seemed  to 

say: 
"  Not  yet,  not  yet,  for  Love  our  tongues 

have  tolled ! " 


More  slowly  rolled  the  silver  disk  above 

The  hiding  hills,  than  ever  moon  came 
up: 

The  sky's  begemmed  and  sapphire-tinted 
cup 

Spilled  o'er  its  dew,  and  Heaven  in  nup 
tial  love 

Stretched  forth  his  mystic  arms,  and 
crouched  beside 

The  yearning  Earth,  his  dusky-featured 
bride  : 

The  pulses  of  the  Night  began  to  move, 

And  Life's  eternal  secret  ruled  the  tide. 


Along  the  shadow  of  the  garden-walls 
I  crept:  the  streets  were  still,  or  only 

beat 

To  wavering  echoes  by  unsteady  feet 
Of  wine-flushed  revellers  from  banquet 

halls. 
They  saw  me  not :  the  yielding  door  I 

gained, 

And  glided  down  a  darksome  alley,  sweet 
With  slumbering  roses,  to  the  shy  retreat 
Of  bashful  bliss  and  yearning  unpro- 

faned. 


264 


THE  PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN. 


XIV. 

The  amorous  odors  sf  the  moveless 
air,  — 

Jasmine  and  tuberose  and  gillyflower, 

Carnation,  heliotrope,  and  purpling 
shower 

Of  Persian  roses,  —  kissed  my  senses 
there 

Tc  keenest  passion,  clad  my  limbs  with 
power 

Like  some  young  god's,  when  at  the  ban 
quet  first 

He  drinks  fresh  deity  with  eager  thirst,  — 

And  midnight  rang  from  Santa  Croce's 
tower ! 


She  came  !   a  stealthy,   startled,  milk- 
white  fawn, 
Thridding  the  tangled  bloom  :  a  balmy 

wave 
Foreran  her  coming,  and  the  blushful 

dawn 

Of  Love  its  color  to  the  moonlight  gave, 
And  Night  grew  splendid.     In  a  trance 

divine, 
Hand  locked  in  hand,  with  kissing  pulse, 

we  clung, 
Then  heart  to  heart ;  and  all  her  being 

flung 
Its  sweetness  to  the  lips,  and  mixed  with 

mine. 


Immortal  Hour,  whose  starry  torch  did 
guide 

Eternal  Love  to  his  embalmed  nest 

In  virgin  bosoms,  —  Hour,  supremely 
blest 

Beyond  thy  sisters,  lift  thy  brow  in  pride, 

A.nd  say  to  her  whose  muffled  beams  in 
vest 

The  bed  where  Strength  lies  down  at 
Beauty's  side, 

f  Before  my  holier  lamp  thy  forehead 
hide : 

Give  up  thy  crown :  the  joy  I  bring  is 
best !  " 


"  0  saved,  not  lost,  —  Madonna,  bless  thy 

child ! " 
She  murmured  then;  and  I  as  fondly, 

"  Death 
Come  now,  and  close   my  over-happy 

breath 
On  sacred  lips,  that  shall  not  be  defiled 


By  grosser  kisses  ! "    "  Fail  me  not," 

she  said, 

And  clung  the  closer,  —  "God  is  over 
head, 

And  hears  you."  "  Yea,"  I  whispered 
wild, 

"And  may  His  thunder  strike  the  false 
one  dead  ! " 


No   thought   had   she  of  lineage  or  of 

place : 

Love  washed  the  colors  from  her  blaz 
oned  shield 

To  make  a  mirror  for  her  lover's  face, 
Unto  patrician  ignorance  revealed 
The  bliss  to  give,  the  ecstasy  to  yield, 
And  now,  descended  from  her  stately 

dream, 

She  trod  the  happy  level  of  her  race, 
In  perfect,  sweet  surrender,  faith   su 
preme. 


"With    cautious  feet,   in   dewy   sandals 

shod, 
And  sidelong  look,  the  perfumed  Hours 

went  by ; 

Until  the  azure  darkness  of  the  sky 
Withered  aloft,  and  shameless  Morning 

trod 
Her  clashing  bells.     Our  paradise  was 

past, 
And  yet  to  part  was  bitterer  than  to 

die. 
We  rose  :  we  turned  :  we  held  each  other 

fast, 
Each  kiss  the  fonder  as  it  seemed  the 

last. 


0  happy  Earth  !    To  Love's  triumphant 

heart 
Thou  still  art  convoyed  by  the  singing 

stars 

That  hailed  thy  birth :  Heaven's  beau 
teous  counterpart, 
No    shadow   dims  thee,   no   convulsion 

mars 
Thy  fair  green  bosom  :  on  thy  forehead 

shine 
The   golden    lilies  of    the   bridegroom 

Day, 
Thy  hoary  forests   take  the  bloom   of 

May, 
Thy  seas  the  sparkle  of  the  autumn's 

wine! 


THE   "WOMAN. 


265 


Serenely  beautiful,  the  brightening  morn 
Led   on  the  march  of  mine  enchanted 

round 
Of  days,  wherein  the  world  was  freshly 

born, 

-A  nd  men  with  primal  purity  recrowned  : 
So  deep  my  drunkenness  of  heart  and 

brain, 

That  Art,  o'ershadowed,  sat  as  if  forlorn 
In  Love's  excess  of  glory,  and  in  vain 
Essayed  my  old  allegiance  to  regain. 


She  to  the  regions  o'er  our  lives  unfurled 
Is  turned  :  from  that  which  never  is,  she 

draws 
Her   best   achievements  and   her  finest 

laws, 
And  more  enriches  than  she  owes,  the 

world,  — 
Whence,   leading  Life,  she   rules ;   till 

Life,  in  turn, 

Feels  in  its  veins  the  warmer  ether  burn, 
Asserts  itself,  and  bids  its  service  pause, 
To  be  the  beauty  it  was  vowed  to  earn  ! 


And  my  transfigured  heart  no  baby-love, 
With  dimpled  face,  had  taken  to  its  nest, 
But  that  Titanic,  pre-Olympian  guest, 
The   elder   god,  who  bears  his   slaves 

above 

The  fret  of  Time,  the  frowns  of  Circum 
stance  ; 
And,  twin  with  Will,  engendered  in  my 

breast 

A  certain  vision  of  a  life  in  rest, 
And  love  secured  against  the  shocks  of 
chance. 


It  was  enough  to  feel  his  potent  arm 

Lift  me  aloft,  like  giant  Christopher, 

Above  the  flood.  Could  he  the  dragon 
charm 

Whose  fanged  and  gilded  strength  still 
guarded  her  ? 

The  crumbling  pride  of  twice  three  hun 
dred  years, 

Trembling  in  dotage  at  the  ghost  of 
harm, 

Could  he  subdue  ?  Ah,  wherefore  sum 
mon  fears 

To  vex  the  faith  that  never  reappears ! 


But  she  the  more,  whose  swift-approach 
ing  i.ite 

Shamed  the  exalting  bliss  that  made  me 
free, 

And  clouded  hers,  thereon  did  meditate. 

When  next  she  met  me  at  the  garden- 
gate, 

Its  chilling  shadow  fell  upon  me 
;'  See ! " 

She  said,  and  dangled  in  the  balmy  dark 

(The  moon  was  down)  a  chain  of  jewel 
ry. 

That,  snake-like,  burned  with  many  a 
diamond  spark. 


"  His  bridal  gift ! "  she  whispered :  "  he 

will  come, 
Erelong,  to  claim  me.  Speech,  and  tears, 

and  prayer, 

Are  vain  my  father's  will  to  overbear, 
And   better  were  it,  had  my  lips  been 

dumb. 
Incredulous,  he  heard  with  wondering 

stare 
My  pleading  :  '  keep  rne,  father,  at  your 

side ! 
I  will    not    be    that  wanton    prince's 

bride,  — 
Unwed,  your  lonely  palace  let  me  share  ! ' 


"Much  more  I  said,  not  daring  to  re 
veal 

Our  secret ;  but,  alas  !  I  spoke  in  vain. 

He  coldly  smiled  and  raised  me :  'do 
not  kneel,  — 

'T  is  useless  :  here 's  a  pretty,  childish 
rain 

For  nothing,  but  the  sun  will  shine  anon. 

What  ails  the  girl1?  the  compact  shall 
remain. 

Pandolfo's  name  is  not  so  newly  won, 

That  we  can  smutch  it,  and  not  feel  the 
stain.' 


"  He  spoke  my  doom ;  but  death  were 

sweeter  now, 

Since,  O  my  best-beloved,  life  alone 
Is  where  your  eyes,  your  lips,  can  meet 

my  own, 
And  Heaven  commands,  that  registered 

your  vow, 


266 


THE  PICTURE  OF   ST.  JOHN. 


To  save  me,  and  fulfil  it ! "  Then, 
around 

My  neck  her  white,  imploring  arms  were 
thrown ; 

Her  heart  beat  in  mine  ears  wit  i  plain 
tive  sound, 

So  close  and  piteously  she  held  me 
bound. 


Ah  me !  't  was  needless  further  to  re 
hearse 

The  old  romance,  that  life  has  ne'er  be 
lied, 

The  old  offence  which  love  repeats  to 
pride,  — 

The  strife,  the  supplication,  and  the 
curse 

Hung  like  a  thunder-cloud  above  the 
dawn, 

To  threat  the  day  :  it  better  seemed,  to  fly 

Beyond  the  circle  of  that  sullen  sky, 

And  storms  let  idly  loose  when  we  were 
gone. 


"Darling,"  I  answered,  staking  all  my 

fate 
On  the  sole  chance  within  my  beggared 

hands,  — 

"  Darling,  the  wealth  of  love  is  my  es 
tate, 
Save  one  poor  home,  that  in  a  valley 

stands, 
Cool,  dark,  and  lonesome,  far  beyond 

the  line 
Of  wintry  peaks  that  guard  the  summer 

lands ; 
But  shelter  safe,  though  paler  suns  may 

shine, 
And  Paradise,  when  once  't  is  yours  and 

mine ! 

XXXI. 

"  See  !     I  am  all  I  give  :  I  cannot  ask 
That  you  should  leave  the  laurel  and  the 

rose, 
And  halls  of  yellowing  marble,  meant 

to  bask 

In  endless  sun,  and  airs  of  old  repose 
Tliat  fan  the  beauteous  ages,  elsewhere 

lost,  — 
!'3   se"  the  world  put  on   its  deathly 

mask 
Of  low,   gray  sky  and   ever-deepening 

snows, 
And  dip  its  bowers  in  darkness  and  in 

frost.'' 


XXXII. 

"Nay,    let"   (she  cried)  "hfs   mellow 

marbles  shine 
In  Roman  noons, — his  fountains  flap 

the  airs, 
And  rank  and  splendor  crowd  his  gilded 

stairs, 

Wait  in  his  halls,  or  drink  his  banquet- 
wine,  — 
So  ne'er  the  hateful  pomp  I  spurn  be 

mine ; 
But  take  me,  love !  for  ah,  the  father, 

too, 

Who  for  his  early  claims  my  later  cares, 
Is  leagued  with  him,  —  and  I  am  left  to 

you !  " 


"  So,  then,  shall  Summer  cross  the  Al 
pine  chain 

And  scare  the  autumn  crocus  from  the 
meads ; 

And  the  wan  naiads,  'mid  their  brittle 
reeds, 

Feel  the  chill  wave  its  languid  pulse  re 
gain, 

Wooing  the  azure  brook-flowers  into 
bloom 

To  greet  your  coming  ;  and  the  golden 
rain 

Of  beechen  forests  shall  your  path  il 
lume, 

Till  the  Year's  bonfire  burn  away  its 
gloom ! " 


Thus,  at  her  words,  my  sudden  rapture 

threw 

Its  glory  on  the  scene  so  bleak  before, 
As  to  the  nightly  mariner  a  shore 
That   out   of    hollow   darkness   slowly 

grew, 
Seeming  huge  cliffs  that  menaced  with 

the  roar 
Of  hungry  surf,  when  Morning  lifts  her 

torch 

Flashes  at  once  to  gardens  dim  with  dew, 
And  homes  and  temples  fair  with  pil 
lared  porch. 


"  Away  !  "  was  Love's  con$mand,   and 

we  obeyed ; 
And  Chanc*  assisted,  ere  three  times  the 

sun 


THE   WOMAN. 


267 


Cooked  o'er  the  planet's  verge,  that 
swiftly  spun 

To  bring  the  hour,  so  perilously  delayed 

My  fortune  with  Colonna's  now  was 
weighed ; 

But  that  brief  time  of  love's  last  lib 
erty — 

Pandolfo  called  to  Rome,  ere  aught  be 
trayed 

His  daughter's  secret  —  turned  the  scale 
to  me.  x 


My  mules  were  waiting  by  the  city  gate, 
With  Gianni,  quick  to  lead   a  lover's 

fate 

Along  the  bridle-paths  of  Apennine,  — 
A  gallant  contadino,  whom  I  knew 
From  crown  to  sole,  each  joint  and  clear- 
drawn  line 
Of  plaited   muscle,  healthy,  firm,  and 

true  ; 

And  midnight  struck,  as  from  the  gar 
den  came 

She  who  forsook  for  me  her  home  and 
name. 


XXXVII. 

With  them  she  laid  aside  her  silken  shell 
And  jewel-sparks,  and  chains  of  moony 

pearl,  — 
Bright,  babbling  toys,  that  of  her  rank 

might  tell, — 

And  wore,  to  cheat  the  drowsy  sentinel, 
The  scarlet  bodice  of  a  peasant-girl, 
Her  wealth  the  golden  dagger  in  her 

hair : 
The  haughty  vestures  from  her  beauty 

fell, 
Leaving  her  woman,  simply  pure  and 

fair. 


The  gate  was  passed :  before  as,  through 
the  night, 

We  traced  the  dusky  road,  and  far  away, 

Where  ceased  the  stars,  we  knew  the 
mountains  lay. 

There  must  we  climb  before  their  shoul 
ders,  white 

With  autumn  rime,  should  redden  to  the 
day ; 

But  now  a  line  of  faintly-scattered  light 

plays  o'er  the  dust,  and  the  old  olives 
calls 

To  ghostly  life  above  the  orchard-walls. 


A  little  chapel,  built  by  pious  hands, 
That  foot-sore  pilgrims  from  the  blister 
ing  soil 

May  turn,  or  laborers  from  summer  toil 
To  rest  that  breathes  of  God,  it  open 

stands ; 
And  there  her  shrine  with  daily  flowc-8 

is  drest, 
Her  lamp  is  nightly  trimmed  and  fed 

with  oil, 

The  Mater  Dolorosa,  in  whose  breast, 
Bleeding,  the  seven  swords  of  woe  are 
pressed. 


"  Stay !  "  whispered  Clelia,  as  the  nar 
row  vault 

Yawned  with  its  faded  frescoes^  and  the 
lamp 

Revealed,  untouched  by  rust  or  blurred 
with  damp, 

The  Virgin's  face:  it  beckoned  us  to 
hart 

And  lay  our  love  before  her  feet  divine, 

A  priestless  sacrament,  —  so  kneeling 
there 

In  self-bestowed  espousal,  Clelia's  prayer 

Spake  to  the  Mother's  heart  her  trust  in 
mine. 


"  0  Sorrowing  Mother !   Heaven's  ex 
alted  Queen ! 
Star    of    the    Sea !    Lily    among    the 

Thorns ! 
Clothed  with  the  sun,  while  round  Thy 

feet  serene 
The  crescent  planet  curves  her  silver 

horns, 
Be  Thou  my  star  to  still  this  trembling 

sea 
Within  my  bosom,  —  let  the  love  that 

mourns 

One  with  the  love  that  here  rejoices,  be, 
Soothed  in    Thy  peace,  acceptable   to 

Thee! 

XLII. 

"  Thou  who  dost  hide  the  maiden's  vir 
gin  fear 

In  thine  enclosed  garden,  Fountain 
sealed 

Of  Woman's  holiest  secrets,  bend  Thine 
ear 

To  these  weak  words  of  one  whose  heart 
must  yield 


268 


THE  PICTUKE  OF   ST.  JOHN. 


This  temple  of  the  body  Thou  didst 
wear 

To  love,  —  and  by  Thy  pity,  oft  re 
vealed, 

Pure  Priestess,  hearken  to  Thy  daugh 
ter's  prayer, 

And  bless  the  bond,  of  other  blessing 
bare ! 


"Mother  of  Wisdom,   in  whose  heart 

are  thrust 
The  seven  swords  of  Sorrow,  in  whose 

pain 

Thy  cha>te  Divinity  draws  near  again 
To  maids  and  mothers,  crying  from  the 

dust,  — 

Who  ne'er  forgettest  any  human  woe, 
Once    doubly   Thine,   Thy   grace   and 

comfort  show, 
And  perft'ct  make,  0  Star  above   the 

Sea, 
These  nuptial  pledges,  only  heard   by 

Thee  ! " 

XLIV. 

Then   Clelia's   hand   entrusted    she   to 

mine, 
Who  knelt  beside  her,  and  the  vow  she 

spake, 
Weeping :  "  I  take  him,  Mother,  at  Thy 

shrine. 
Home,  country,  father,  leave   I  for  his 

sake, 
Give  my  pure  name,  my  maiden  honor 

break 
For  him,  my  spouse  !  "    And  I :  "  I  give 

my  life, 
Chaste,  faithful  to  the  end,  to  her,  my 

wjfe, 
Whom  here,  O  Mother,  at  Thy  hands  I 

take ! " 


Thus,  ir.  the  lack  of  Earth's  ordaining 
rite, 

Did  our  own  selves  our  union  conse 
crate  ; 

But  God  was  listening  from  the  hollow 
Night. 

Beyond  the  stars  we  felt  his  smile  create 

Dawn  in  the  doubtful  twilight  of  our 
fate : 

Peace  touched  our  hearts  and  sacredest 
content : 

The  veil  was  lifted  from  our  perfect 
light 

Uf  nuptial  love,  pure-burning,  reverent. 


The  Sorrowing  Mother  gazed.    So  pur 

the  kiss 

I  gave,  Her  own  divinest  lips  had  ta'en 
From  mine  no  trace  of  sense-reflected 

stain ; 
But  Gianni  called  us  from  the  dream  of 

bliss. 
"  Haste,  Signor,  haste  !  "  he  cried :  "  the 

Bear  drops  low : 
Soon  will  the  cocks  in  all  the  gardens 

crow 
The  morning  watch :   day  comes,  and 

night  again, 
But  come  to  part,  not  mate,  unless  you 

go!" 


Then  silent,  side  by  side,  we   forward 

fled 
Through  the  chill  airs  of  night :  each 

falling  hoof 
Beat  like  a  flail  beneath  the  thresher's 

roof, 

In   quick,  unvarying  time :   and   rosy- 
red 
Crept  o'er  the  gray,  as  nimbly  Gianni 

led 
Our   devious  flight  along    the    barren 

steeps, 
Till,    far    beyond    the    sinking,    misty 

deeps, 
The  sun  forsook  his  Adriatic  bed. 


There    is    a  village    perched,   as   you 

emerge 
From  the  Santerno's  long  and  winding 

vale 

Towards  Imola,  upon  the  cliffy  verge 
Of   the  last  northern   prop   of   Apen- 

nine,  — 

Old,  yellow  houses,  hinting  many  a  tale 
Of  ducal  days  and  Este's  tragic  line, 
And  over  all  uplifted,  orange-pale 
Against  the  blue,  a  belfry  slim  and  flue. 


With  weary  climbing  of  the  rocky  stair 
Thither  we  came,  and  in  a  hostel  rude 
Sat  down,  outworn,  to  breathe  securer 

air, 
Our  guide  dismissed,  nor  eyes  that  might 

intrude, 
Amoujj  the  simple  inmates  of  the  placa 


THE  WOMAN. 


269 


The  brightest  stars  of  heaven  watched 

o'er  us  there 
In   owect   conjunction,  every   dread  to 

chase, 
To  close  the  Past,  and  make  the  Future 

fair. 


Ah,  had  we   dared  to  linger  in  that 

nest,  — 

To  watch  from  under  overhanging  eaves, 
The  loaded  vines,  the  poplars'  twinkling 

leaves,  — 
Afar,   the   breadth  of  the   Romagna's 

breast 
And  Massa's,  Lugo's  towers,  —  the  little 

stir 

Of  innocent  life,  caress  and  be  caressed, 
Rank,  Art,  and  Fame  among  the  things 

that  were, 
And  all  her  bliss  in  me,  as  mine  in  her ! 


But  Florence  was  too  near :  my  purpose 

held 

To  bear  and  hide  our  happiness  afar 
In  the  dark  mountains,  lonely,  greenest- 

delled ; 
,And  still,  each  night,  the  never-setting 

star 
We  followed  took  in  heaven  a  loftier 

stand,  — 

Sparkled  ou  other  rivers,  other  towns, 
Glinting   from    icy   horns    and    snowy 

crowns 
Until  we  trod  the  green  Bavarian  land ! 


And  evermore,  behind  us  on  the  road, 

Pursuit,  a  phantom,  drove.  If  we  de 
layed, 

Some  coward  pulse  our  meeting  bosoms 
frayed ; 

Our  tale  the  breezes  blew,  the  sunshine 
glowed  ; 

The  stars  our  secret  ecstasies  betrayed  : 

Prunk  with  our  passion's  vintage,  we 
must  fill 

The  cup  too  full,  and  tremble  lest  it 
spill,  — 

Obeying,  thus,  the  law  we  would  evade. 


t^ow,  from  that  finer  ether  sinking  down 
Into  the  humble,  universal  air, 


The  images  of  many  a  human  care 
That,  wren-like,  build  beneath  the  thatch 

of  love, 
Came  round  us.    O'er  the  watery  levels, 

brown 

With  auturun  stubble,  the  departing  do7e 
Cooed  her  farewell  to  summer:  rair.y- 

cold 
Through  rocky  gates  the  yellow  Danube 

rolled. 

LIT. 

Grim  were  the  mountains,  with  their 

dripping  pines 

Planted  in  sodden  moss,  and  swiftly  o'er 
Their    crests  the    clouds    their    flying 

fleeces  tore : 
The  herd-boy,  from  his  lair  of  furze  and 

vines 
Peered  out,  beside  his  dogs ;  and  forms 

uncouth, 

The  axemen,  from  the  steeps  descend 
ing,  wore 
The  strength  of  manhood,  but  its  grace 

no  more, — 
The    lust,    without    the    loveliness,   of 

youth ! 

LV. 

The  swollen  streams  careered  beside  us, 
hoarse 

As  warning  prophets  in  an  evil  age, 

And  through  the  stormy  fastnesses  our 
course, 

Blown,  buffeted  with  elemental  rage, 

Fell,  with  the  falling  night,  to  that  lone 
vale 

I  pictured,  with  its  meads  of  crocus- 
bloom,  — 

Ah  me,  engulfed  and  lost  in  drowning 
gloom, 

The  helpless  sport  and  shipwreck  of  the 
gale  ! 


Where  now  the  bright  autumnal  bon 
fires  ?  Where 

The  gold  of  beechen  woods,  the  prodigal 

And  dazzling  waste  of  color  in  its  fall  ? 

The  brook-flowers,  bluer  than  the  morn 
ing-air  ? 

"  My  pomp  of  welcome  mocked  you, 
love  !  "  I  sighed  : 

"  The  sign  was  false,  the  flattering  dream 
denied : 

Unkind  is  Nature,  yet  all  skies  are  fair 

To  trusting  hearts,  when  once  theii 
truth  is  tried  !  " 


270 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN. 


But  Clelia  shuddered,  clinging   to  my 

heart 
When  the  low  roof  received  us,  and  the 

sound 
Of    threshing     branches     boomed    and 

whistled  round 

Our  cot,  that  stood  a  little  way  apart 
Against    the   forest,   from    the   village 

strayed, 

Where  cunning  workmen  in  their  pris 
ons  bound 
The  roaring  Fiend  of  Fire,  and  forced 

his  aid 
To  mould  the  crystal  wonders  of  their 

trade. 


Poor  was  our  home,  and  when  the  rainy 

sky 
Brought   forth   a   child    of    Night,   an 

Ethiop  day, 
And  still  the  turbid  torrents  thundered 

by, 

From  the  drear  landscape  she  would  turn 

away,  — 
Her  thoughts,  perchance,  where  gilded 

Florence  lay,  — 

To  hide  a  tear,  or  crush  a  rising  sigh, 
Then  sing  the  sweet  Italian  songs,  where 

run 
Twin  rills  of  words  and  music  into  one. 


I,  too,   beneath   the   low-hung  rafters, 

saw 
In  dusk  that  filtered  through  the  narrow 

panes, 
My  palette  spread  with  colors  dull  and 

raw, 

Once  ripe  and  juicy-fresh  as  blossom- 
stains. 

The  dim,  beclouded  season  never  brought 
The  light  that  flatters ;  but  its  mists  and 

rains 
Like    eating    rust    upon     my    canvas 

wrought, 
And  turned  to  substance  cold  the  tinted 

thought. 


ground  me  moved  a  rough  and  simple 

race 
Whose  natures,  fresh  and  uncontami- 

nate, 


Gave  truth  to  life,  and  smoothed  their 
toilful  fate 

With  honesty  and  love  — but  lacked  the 
grace 

Of  strength  allied  to  beauty,  or  the  free, 

Unconscious  charm  of  Southern  sym 
metry, 

And  motions  measured  by  a  rhythm 
elate 

And  joyous  as  the  cadence  of  the  sea. 


For  if,  at  times,  among  the  slaves  who 

fed 

The  ever-burning  kilns,  in  fiercest  glow 
Some  naked  torso  momently  would  show 
Like  Hell's  strong  angel,  dipped  in  lurid 

red, 

No  model  this  for  Saviour,  seraph,  saint, 
Ensphered  in  golden  ether :  Labor's 

taint 
Defaced  the  form,  and  here  't  were  vain, 

I  said, 
Some  lovely  hint  to  find,  and  finding, 

paint ! 


Ah,  Art  and  Love  !  Immortal  brother- 
gods, 

That  will  not  dwell  together,  nor  apart, 

But  make  your  temple  in  your  servant's 
heart 

A  house  of  battle.  One  his  forehead 
nods 

In  drowsy  bliss,  and  will  not  be  dis 
turbed, 

The  other's  eager  forces  work  uncurbed, 

Yet  most  in  each  the  other  lives  ;  and 
each 

Mounts  by  the  other's  help  his  crown  to 
reach. 


To  Love  my  debt  was  greatest :  I  com 
pelled 

Back  to  their  sleep  the  dreams  that  stung 
in  vain, 

And  folded  Clelia  in  a  love  which  held 

The  heart  all  fire,  although  its  flame  was 
nursed 

By  embers  borrowed  from  the  smoulder 
ing  brain. 

For  her  had  Art  aspired ;  but  now,  re 
versed 

The  duty,  Art  for  her  must  abnegate 

Its  restless,  proud  resolves,  and  idly 
wait. 


THE   WOMAN. 


271 


The  rains  had  whitened  in  the  upper 

air, 
And  left  their  chill  memorials  glittering 

now 
On    Arber's  shoulders,   Ossa's  horned 

brow  ; 

The  summer  forest  of  its  gold  was  bare  ; 
Loud  o'er  the  changeless  pines  Novem 
ber  drove 
His   frosty  steeds,  through  narrowing 

days  that  wear 
No    light;    and   Winter    settled    from 

above, 
White,  heavy,  cold,  around  our  nest  of 

love. 


The  sportive  fantasies  of  wind  and  snow, 
The  corniced  billows  which  they  love  to 

pile, 

The    ermined  woods,  with   houghs  de 
pending  low, 

To  buttress  frozenly  each  darksome  aisle, 
The  spectral  hills  which  twilight  veils 

in  dun, 

The  season's    hushing    sounds,  —  my 
Clelia  won 


memories,  and  stayed 


From   haunting 

awhile 
Her  homesick  pining  for  the  Tuscan 

sun. 


Only,  when  after  briefest  day,  the  moon 
Poured  down  an  icy  light,  and  all  around 
Came  from  the  iron  woods  a  crackling 

sound, 
As  from  the  stealthy  steps  of  Cold,  and 

soon 
The  long-drawn  howl  of  famished  wolf 

was  heard 
Far  in  the  mountains,  like  a  shuddering 

bird 
Beside   my  heart   a  nestling  place  she 

found, 
And  smiled  to  hear  my  fond,  assuring 

word. 


So  drifted  on,  till  Death's  white  shadow 
passed 

From  edged  air  and  stony  earth,  our 
fate : 

Then  from  the  milder  cloud  and  loosen 
ing  blast 

Unto  his  sunnier  nooks  returning  late, 


Came  Life,  and  let  his  flo-very  footprint 

stand. 
Softer  than  wing  of  dove,  the  winds  at 

last 
Kissed  where  they  smote ;  the  skies  were 

blue  and  bland, 
And  in  their  lap  reposed  the  ravished 

land. 


Then  tears  of  gummy  cry  tal  wept  tita 

pine, 
And  like  a  phantom  plume,  the  sea-green 

larch 
Was  dropped  along  the  mountain's  lifted 

arcn, 
And  morning  on  the  meadows  seemed 

to  shine, 
All  day,  in  blossoms :  cuckoo-songs  were 

sweet, 
And  sweet   the  pastoral  music  of  the 

kine 

Chiming  a  thousand  bells  aloft,  to  meet 
The  herdsman's  horn,  the  young  lamb's 

wandering  bleat ! 


LXIX. 

Under  the  forest's  sombre  eaves  there 
slept 

No  darkness,  but  a  balsam-breathing 
shade, 

Rained  through  with  light :  the  hurry 
ing  waters  made 

Music  amid  the  solitude,  and  swept 

Their  noise  of  liquid  laughter  from 
afar, 

Through  smells  of  sprouting  leaf  and 
trampled'grass, 

And  thousand  tints  of  flowery  bell  and 
star, 

To  sing  the  year's  one  idyl  ere  it  pass ! 


And  down  the  happy  valleys  wandered 

we, 
Released  and  glad,  the  children  of  tho 

sun, — 

I  by  adoption  and  hy  nature  she, — 
And  still  our  love  a  riper  color  won 
From  the  strong  god  in  whom  all  colors 

burn. 

The  Earth  regained  her  ancient  alcr  emy 
To  cheat  our  souls  with  dreams  of  what 

might  be, 
And  never  is,  —  yet,  wherefore  theaa 

unlearn  ? 


272 


THE  PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN. 


For  they  reclothe  us  with  a  mantle,  lent 
From  the  bright  wardrobe  of  the  Gods  : 

the  powers, 

The  glories  of  the  Possible  are  ours  : 
We   breathe   the   pure,  sustaining   ele 
ment 
Above    the   dust   of  life,  —  steal  fresh 

content 
From  distant  gleams  of  never-gathered 

flowers,  — 

Believing,  rise  :  our  very  failures  wear 
Immortal   grace  from  what  we  vainly 
dare  ! 


From  dreams  like  these  is  shaped  the 
splendid  act 

In  painters',  poets'  brains  :  we  let  them 
grow, 

And  as  the  season  rolled  in  richer  flow 

To  summer,  from  their  waves  a  won 
drous  fact 

Uprose,  and  shamed  them  with  diviner 
glow,  — 

A  tremulous  secrefc,  mystic,  scarce-con 
fessed, 

That,  star-like,  throbs  within  the  coars 
est  breast, 

And  sets  God's  joy  beside  His  creature's 
woe. 


As  one    may   see,   along    some    April 

rill, 
By  richest  mould  and  softest  dew-fall 

fed, 

The  daybreak  blossom" of  a  daffodil  . 
Send  from  its  heart  a  tenderer  blossom 

still, 
Flower  bearing  flower,  so  fair  a  marvel 

shed 
Its  bliss  on    Clelia's   being ;    and   she 

smiled 

With  those  prophetic  raptures  which  ful 
fil 
The  mother's  nature  ere  she  clasps  her 

child. 


Between  our  hearts,  embracing  both, 
there  stole 

A  silent  Presence,  like  to  that  which 
reigns 

In  Heaven,  when  God  another  world  or 
dains. 

flere,  in  its  genesis,  a  formless  soul 


Waited  the  living  garment  it  should 

wear 
Of  holiest  flesh,  though  ours  were  dark 

with  stains,  — 
Yet  clouds  that  blot  the  blue,  eternal 

air, 
Upon  their  folds  the  rainbow's  beauty 

bear ! 


And  none  of  all   the  folk  we  moved* 

among 
In   that   lone  valley,  whether  man   or 

maid, 

Or  weary  woman,  prematurely  wrung 
To  bear  the  lusty  flock  that  round  her 

played, 

But  spake  to  Clelia  in  a  gentler  tongue 
And  linto  her  their  timid  reverence  paid, 
As,  in  her  life  repeated,  one  might 

see 
Madonna's  pure  maternal  sanctity  ! 


All  knew  the  lady,  beautiful  and  tall, — 

Dark,  yet  so  pale  in  her  strange  loveli 
ness, 

Whom  oft  they  saw  with  gliding  footstep 
press 

The  meads,  the  forest's  golden  floor ; 
and  all 

Knew  the  enchanted  voice,  whose  alien 
song 

Silenced  the  mountains,  till  the  wood 
man  lone 

His  axe  let  fall,  and  dreamed  and  list 
ened  long,  — 

The  key-flower  plucked,  the  fairy  gold 
his  own  ! 


Never,  they  said,  did  year  its  bounty 

shower 
So    plenteously   upon    their  fields,   as 

now. 
The  lady  brought  their  fortune  :  many 

a  vow 
Would  rise  to  help  her  in  her  woman's 

hour 
Of  pain  and  joy,  and  what  their  hands 

could  do 
(The  will  was  boundless,  though  so  mean 

the  power) 
Was   hers,  —  their  queen,   the   fairest 

thing  they  knew 
Within  the  circle  of  the  mountains  blue. 


THE   WOMAN. 


273 


LXXVIII. 

A.nd  Autumn  came,  like  him  from 
Edorn,  him 

With  garments  dyed,  from  Bozrah,  glo 
rious 

In  his  apparel ;  yet  his  gold  was  dim, 

His  crimsons  pale,  besile  the  splendors 
warm 

Wherewith  the  ripened  time  transfigured 
us. 

The  precious  atoms  drawn  from  heaven 
and  earth, 

And  rocked  by  Love's  own  music  into 
form, 

Compacted  lived  :  a  soul  awaited  birth. 


A  soul  was  born.   The  hazy-mantled  sun 
Looked  in  on  Clelia,  radiant  as  a  saint 
Who  triumphs  over  torture,  pale  and 

faint 
From  parted  life,  —  and  kissed  the  life 

begun 

With  tender  light,  as  quick  to  recognize 
His  child,   in    exile :    the   unconscious 

one,  — 
Stray  lamb  of  heaven,  whom  tears  might 

best  baptize, — 
Closed  on  her  happy  breast  his  mother's 

eyes. 


Her  eyes  they  were  :  her  fresh-born 
beauty  took 

Its  seat  in  man,  that  woman's  heart 
might  bow 

One  day,  before  the  magic  of  that  look 

Which  conquered  man  and  held  him 
captive  now. 

The  frail  and  precious  mould  which 
drew  from  me 

Naught  but  its  sex,  her  likeness  did  en 
dow 

With  breathing  grace  and  witching  sym 
metry, 

As  once  in  baby  demigod  might  be. 

LXXXI. 

Bo  came  from  him  —  as  in  Correggio's 

"  Night " 

The  body  of  the  Holy  Child  illumes 
The    stable    dark,    the    starry   Syrian 

glooms, 

the  rapt,  adoring  faces, — sudden  light 
18 


For  that  dark  season  when  the  sun  hung 

low; 
And  warmth,  when  earth  again  lay  cold 

and  white ; 
And  peace,  Love  reconciled  with  Life  to 

know; 
And  promise,   kindling  Art  to   rosier 

glow. 


Here  dawned  the  inspiration,  long  de 
layed, 

The  light   of    loftier  fancy.     As    she 
pressed, 

Cradled    against    her    balmy    mother- 
breast, 

The  child  —  a  pink  on  sun-kissed  lilios 
laid  — 

I  saw  the  type  of  old  achievement  won 

In  them,  the  holy  hint  their  forms  COD 
veyed : 

And  lovelier  never  God's  Elected  Maid 

And  Goddess-Mother  dreamed  Urbino's 
son ! 


But  she  —  when  first  mine  eager  hand 
would  seize 

Her  perfect  beauty  —  troubled  grew, 
and  pale. 

"  Dear  Egon,  No ! "  she  said :  "my heart 
would  fail, 

Alarmed  for  love  that  wraps  in  sancti 
ties 

Its  earthly  form  :  for  see !  the  babe  may 
lie 

With  white,  untainted  soul,  and  in  his 
eye 

The  light  of  Heaven,  and  pure  as  al 
mond-flowers 

His  dimpling  flesh,  —  but,  Egon,  he  is 
ours ! 


"  If  blessing  may  be  forfeited,  to  set 

A  child,  the  loveliest,  in  the  place  di 
vine 

Of  Infant  God,  it  were  more  impious 
yet 

To  veil  the  Mother's  countenance  in 
mine : 

Ah,  how  should  I,  to  human  love  though 
fair, 

Assume  her  grace  and  with  her  pity 
sjiine,  — 

Profane  usurpress  of  her  sacred  shrine, 

To  cheat  the  vow  and  intercept  the 
prayer ! " 


274 


THE   PICTURE    OF   ST.   JOHN. 


A  woman's  causeless  fancy  !     What  I 

said 
I  scarce    remember,  —  that  the  face  I 

stole 
Had  brought  herself,  and  if  the  half  so 

wrought, 
A  surer  blessing  now  must  bring  the 

whole, 
And  laurel  cast,  not  jasmine,  on  my 

he;id. 

The  profanation  was  a  thing  of  thought, 
Or  touched  the  artist  only  :  who  could 

paint, 
If  saint  alone  dare  model  be  for  saint  1 


And  so,  by  Art  possessed;  I  would  not 
see 

Forebodings  which  in  woman's  finer 
•  sense 

Arise,  and  draw  their  own  fulfilment 
thence, — 

Light  clouds,  yet  hide  the  bolts  of  Des 
tiny 

And  darken  life,  erelong.   I  gave,  in  joy, 

To  fleeting  grace  immortal  permanence, 

And  dreamed  of  coming  fame  for  all  the 
three, 

Myself,  the  fairest  mother,  and  the  boy ! 


She   sat,  in  crimson   robe  and  mantle 

blue, 

Fondling  the  child  in  holy  nakedness, 
Resigned  and  calm, — alas!  I  could  not 

guess 
The  haunting   fear   that   daily  deeper 

grew 
In    the  sweet  face  that  would  its  fear 

subdue, 
Nor  make  my  hand's  creative  rapture 

less: 

But  cold  her  kisses  to  my  own  replied, 
And  when  the  work  completed  stood  — 

she  sighed. 

LXXXVIII. 

And  from  that  hour  a  shadow  seemed 

to  hang 
Around  her  life :  our  idyl  breathed  no 

more 
Its  flute-like   joy  in   every   strain   she 

sang : 


Her  step  the   measures  of  an  anthem 

wore, 
That   hushes,   soothes,  yet   makes  not 

wholly  sad ; 
And  if,  at  times,  my  heart  confessed  a 

pang 
To  note  the  haunted  gleam  her  features 

had, 
I  failed  to  read  the  prophecy  it  bore. 


Again  the  summer  beckoned  from  the 
hills, 

And  back  from  Daulis  came  the  night 
ingale  ; 

But  when  the  willows  shook  by  meadow- 
rills 

Their  sheeted  silver,  Clelia's  cheek  grew 
pale. 

She  spoke  not ;  but  I  knew  her  fancy 
said 

So  shook  the  olives  now  in  Arno's  vale, 

So  flashed  the  brook  along  its  pebbly  bed, 

Through  bosky  oleanders,  roofed  with 
red! 


This  cheer  I  gave :  "  Be  sure  my  fame 
awaits 

The  work  of  love :  this  cloud  will  break, 
and  we 

Walk  in  the  golden  airs  of  Tuscan}', 

Guarded  by  that  renown  which  conse 
crates 

Our  fault,  if  love  be  such ;  and  fame 
shall  be 

My  shield,  to  shame  your  father's  her 
aldry, 

And  set  you  in  your  ancient  halls. 
Take  heart, 

And  as  my  love  you  trusted,  trust  my 
art ! " 


She  faintly  smiled, — if  smile  the  lips 

could  stir 
Which  more  of  yearning  than  of  hope 

expressed ; 

A  filmy  mask  to  hide  the  warning  guest 
Of  thought  which  evermore  abode  in  her : 
And  then  she  kissed  me,  —  riot,  as  once, 

with  fire 
And   lingering   sweetness   drawn   from 

love's  desire, 

But  soft,  as  Heaven's  angelic  messenger    f 
Might  touch  the  lips  of  prayer,  and  uiaks 

them  blest ! 


THE   CHILD. 


275 


BOOK  III. 
THE  CHILD. 


SAD  Son  of  Earth,  if  ever  to  thy  care 
Some  god  entrust  the  dazzling  gift  of 
JOT, 

Within  thy  trembling  hands  the  burden 
bear  • 

As  if  the  frailest  crystal  shell  it  were, 

One  thrill  of  exultation  might  destroy ! 

Look  to  thy  feet,  take  heed  where  thou 
shalt  stand, 

And  arm  thine  eyes  with  fear,  thy  heart 
with  prayer, 

Like  one  who  travels  in  a  hostile  land! 


For,  ever  hovering  in  the  heart  of  day 
Unseen,   above   thee   wait   the   Powers 

malign, 
Who  scent  thy  bliss  as  vultures  scent 

decay : 
Unveil  thy  secret,   give  one   gladsome 

sign, 
Send  up  one  thought  to  chant  beside 

the  lark 

In  airy  poise,  and  lo !  the  sky  is  dark 
With    swooping    wings,  —  thy   gift    is 

snatched  away 
Ere  dies  the  rapture  which  proclaimed 

it  thine  ! 


We  plan  the  houses  which  are  never 
built : 

The  volumes  which  our  precious  thoughts 
enclose 

Are  never  written :  in  the  falchion's 
hilt 

Sleeps  nobler  daring  than  the  nero 
shows : 

And  never  Fate  allows  a  life  to  give 

The  measure  of  a  soul,  —  but  incom 
plete 

Expression  and  imperfect  action  meet, 

To  form  the  tintless  sketch  of  what  we 
live. 


I  would  not  see  the  path  that  led  apart 

My  Clelia's  feet,  as 'twere  on  hills  of 
cloud, 

But  deemed  the  saintler  light,  whereto  I 
bowed 

In  reverence  of  mine  adoring  heart, 

The  mother's  nature :  day  by  day  I 
smiled, 

As  higher,  further  drawn,  my  dreams 
avowed 

Diviner  types  of  beauty,  —  whence  be 
guiled, 

Her  robes  of  heaven  I  wrapped  around 
her  child. 


Our  daily  miracle  was  he  :  a  bud 

Steeped  in  the  scents  of  Eden,  balmy- 
fair, 

The  world's  pure  morning  bright  upon 
his  hair, 

And  life's  unopened  roses  in  his  blood  ! 

In  the  blank  eyes  of  birth  a  timorous 
star 

Of  wonder  sparkled,  as  the  soul  awoke, 

And  from  his  tongue  a  brook-like  bab 
bling  broke,  — 

A  strange,  melodious  language  from  afar ! 


His  body  showed,  in  every  dimpled  swell, 

The  pink  and  pearl  of  Ocean's  loveliest 
shell, 

And  swift  the  little  pulses  throbbed 
along 

Their  turquoise  paths,  the  soft  breast 
rose  and  fell 

As  to  the  music  of  a  dancing  song, 

And  all  the  darling  graces  which  be 
long 

To  babyhood,  and  breathe  :."rom  every 
limb, 

Made  life  more  beautiful,  revealed  in 
him. 


276 


THE  PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN. 


His  mother's  face  I  dared  not   paint 

again, 

For  now,  .infected  by  her  mystic  dread, 
The  picture  smote  me  with  reproachful 

pain ; 

But  often,  bending  o'er  his  cradle-bed 
To  learn  by  heart  the  wondrous  tints 

and  lines 
That  charmed  me  so,  my  kindling  fancy 

said  : 
"  By  thee,  my  Cherub,  shall  mine  art  be 

led 
To   clasp   the   Truth   it  now  but  half 

divines ! 


"  If  I  have  sinned,  to  set  thee  in  the 

place 
Of   Infant   God,   the    hand   that    here 

offends 
Shall  owe  its  cunning  to  thy  growing 

grace, 
And    from    thy   loveliness    make    late 

amends. 
Six  summers  more,  and  I  shall  bid  thee 

stand 

Before  me,  with  uplift,  prophetic  face, 
And  there  St.  John  shall  grow  beneath 

my  hand,  — 
A  bright  boy-angel  in  a  desert  land ! 


"  Six  summers  more,  and  then,  as  Gany 
mede's, 
Thy  rosy  limbs  against  the  dark-blue 

sky 
Shall  press  the  eagle's  plumage  as   he 

speeds  ; 
Or  darling    Hylas,    'mid    Scamander's 

reeds, 

Borrow  thy  beauty  :  six  again,  and  I 
Shall  from   thy  lithesome  adolescence 

take 
My  young  St.  George,  my  victor  knight, 

and  make 
Beneath   thy    sword    once    more    the 

Dragon  die ! 


"  Art  thou  not  mine  ?  and  wilt  thou  not 
repay 

My  love  with  help  unconsciously  be 
stowed  1 

In  tbv  ^resh  being,  in  its  bright  abode, 


Shall   I  not  find  my  morning-star,  my 

day  1 
Rejoice !  one  life,  at  least,  shall  death- 

less  be, — 
One  perfect  form   grow   ripe,  but   not 

decay  : 
Through  mine  own  blood  shall   I  my 

triumph  see, 
And  give   to  glory  what  I  steal  from 

thee ! " 


One  day,  in  indolence  of  sheer  despair, 
I  sat  with  hanging  arm,  the  colors  dried 
Upon  my  palette  :  sudden,  at  my  side 
Knelt  Clelia,  lifting  through  her  falling 

hair 
A  look  that  stabbed  me  with  its  tearful 

care ; 

And  words  that  came  like  swiftly-drop 
ping  tears 
Made  my  heart  ache  and  shiver  in  mine 

ea.rs, 
As  thus  in  sorrow  and  in  love  she  cried : 


"  0  Egon,  mine  the  fault !  I  should 
have  dared 

Defy  the  compact,  —  should  have  set 
you,  love, 

As  far  in  station  as  in  soul  above 

These  mocking  wants  —  mine  idle  fort 
une  shared 

With  your  achievement !  Coward  heart, 
that  fled 

The  post  of  righteous  battle,  and  pre 
pared 

For  you,  whose  hand  and  brain  I  could 
not  wed, 

Meaning  to  bless,  a  martyrdom  instead ! 


"  I  hold  you  back,  alas !  when-  you  as 
pire  ; 

I  chain  your  spirit  when  it  pants  to 
soar : 

I,  proud  to  kindle,  glad  to  feed  the  fire, 

But  heap  cold  ashes  on  its  fading  core  ! 

Command  me,  Egou !  shall  I  seek  the 
sire 

Whose  lonely  house  might  welcome  me 
once  more, 

And  mine  —  my  twain  beloved  ?  Let 
me  make 

This  late,  last  trial  for  our  future's 
sake ! " 


THE  CHILD. 


277 


"  Not  thine,  my  Clelia ! "  soothing  her, 
I  said, 

"  Not  thine  the  fault  —  nor  ours ;  but 
.  Demons  wait 

To  thwart  the  shining  purposes  of  Fate, 

And  not  a  crown  descends  on  any  head 

Ere  half  its  fairest  leaves  are  plucked 
or  dead  : 

Yet  be  it  as  thou  wilt,  —  who  bore  thee 
thence 

Must  in  thy  father's  house  thee  rein 
state, 

Or  bear  —  not  thou  —  the  weight  of  his 
offence. 


"  Come,  thou  art  pale,  and  sad,  and  sick 

for  home, 

My  summer  lily  —  nursling  of  the  sun ! 
But  thou  shalt  blossom  in  the  breeze  of 

Rome, 
And  dip  thy  feet  in  Baiae's  whispering 

foam, 

And  in  the  torn  Abruzzi  valleys,  dun 
With  August  stubble,  watch  thy  wild 

fawn  run,  — 
I  swear  it !     With  the  melting  of  the 

snow, 
If  Fortune  or  if  Euin  guide,  we  go !  " 


And  soon  there  came,  as  't  were  an  an 
swering  hint 

From  heaven,  the  tardy  gold  Madonna 
brought,  — 

But  I  unto  that  end  had  gladly  wrought 

Heart's-blood  to  coin,  and  drained  the 
ruddy  mint 

Of  life,  again  the  mellow  songs  to  hear 

That  told  how  sunward  turned  her 
happy  thought : 

That  sang  to  sleep  her  soul's  unbodied 
fear, 

And  led  her  through  the  darkness  of  the 
year! 


Alas !  't  was  not  so  written.     Day  by 

day 
Her  cheek  grew  thin,  her  footstep  faint 

and  slow ; 
And  yet  so  fondly,  with  such  hopefui 

play 
Her  pulses  beat,  they  masked  che  coming 

woe. 


Joy  dwelt  with  her,  and  in  her  eager 
breath 

His  cymbals  drowned  the  hollow  drums 
of  Death : 

Life  showered  its  promise,  surer  to  be 
tray, 

And  the  false  Future  crumbled  fast 
away. 


Aye,  she  was  happy  !     God  be  thanked 

for  this, 
That  she  was  happy  !  —  happier  than 

she  knew, 
Had  even  the  hope  that  cheated  her  been 

true ; 
For  from  her  face  there   beamed  such 

wondrous  bliss, 

As  cannot  find  fulfilment  here,  and  dies. 
God's  peace  and  pardon  touched  me  in 

her  kiss, 

Heaven's  morning  dawned  and  bright 
ened  in  her  eyes, 
And  o'er  the   Tuscan  arched  remoter 

skies! 


Dazzled  with  light,  I  could  not  see  the 

close 

So  near  and  dark,  and  every  day  that  won 
Some  warmer  life  from  the   returning 

sun, 

Took  from  the  menaces  that  interpose 
Between  the  plan  and  deed.     I  dared  to 

dream 
Her  dreams,  and  paint  them  lovelier  as 

they  rose, 
Till  from  the  echoing  hollows  one  wild 

stream 
Sprang  to  proclaim  the  melting  of  the 

snows. 


Then  —  how  she   smiled  !     And  I  the 

casement  wide 
To  that  triumphant  sound  must  throw, 

despite 

The  bitter  air ;  and,  soothed  and  satisfied, 
She  slept   until    the  middle   watch   of 

night. 
I  watched  beside  her:  dim  the  taper's 

light 
Before  the  corner-shrine,  —  the  walls  in 

sh:ule 
Glimmered,  but  through  the  window  all 

was  white 
In   crystal   moonshine,   and   the   winds 

were  laid. 


278 


THE  PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN. 


And  awe  and  shuddering  fell  upon  my 
soul. 

Out  of  the  silence  came,  if  not  a  sound, 

The  sense  of  sphery  music,  far,  pro 
found, 

As  Earth,  revolving  on  her  moveless 
pole, 

Might  breathe  to  God  :  and  at  the  case 
ment  shone 

Something —  a  radiant  bird  it  seemed,  — 
alone, 

And  beautiful, .and  strange  :  its  plumes 
around 

Played  the  soft  fire  of  stars  whence  it 
had  flown. 


The  beak  of  light,  the  eye  of  flame,  — 

dispread 
The     hovering    wings,    as    winnowing 

music  out ; 

And  richer  still  the  glory  grew  about 
The  shadowy  room,  crept  over  Clelia's 

bed 
And  hung,  a  shimmering  circle,  round 

her  head  : 
Then  marked  I  that  her  eyes  were  wide 

and  clear, 
Nor  wondered  at  the  vision.     All  my 

fear 
Fled   when   she   spoke,   and  these  the 

words  she  said : 


XXIII. 

"  Thou  call's-t,  and  I  am  ready.    Ah,  I 

see 

The  shining  field  of  lilies  in  the  moon, 
So  white,  so  fair  !    Yet  how  depart  with 

thee, 
And  leave  the  bliss  of  threefold  life  so 

soon  ? 
Peace,  fainting  heart !     Though  sweet 

it  were  to  stay, 

Sweet  messenger,  thy  summons  I  obey  : 
And  now  the  mountains  part,  and  now 

the  free 
Wide  ocean   gleams  beneath  a  golden 

day ! 


"  How  fctill  they  lie,  the  olive-sandalled 
slopes, 

The  gardens  and  the  towers  !  But  float 
ing  o'er 


Their  shaded  sleep,  lo !  some  divinei 
shore, 

Deep  down  the  bright,  unmeasured  dis 
tance,  opes 

Its  breathing  valleys :  wait  for  me  !  I 
haste, 

But  am  not  free  :  till  morning  let  ma 
taste 

The  last  regret  of  faithful  love  onca 
more, 

Then  shall  I  walk  with  thee  yon  lilied 
floor !  " 


The  bright  Tiling  fled,  the  moon  went 
down  the  west. 

Long  lay  she  silent,  sleepless  ;  nor 
might  I 

Break  wiih  a  sound  the  hush  of  ecstasy, 

The  stninge,  unearthly  peace,  till  from 
his  rest 

The  child  awoke  with  soft,  imploring 
cry: 

Then  she,  with  feeble  hands  outreach- 
ing,  laid 

His  little  cheek  to  hers,  and  softly  made 

His  murmurs  cease  upon  her  mother- 
breast. 


My  trance  dissolved  at  once,  and  falling 
prone 

In  ngony  of  tears,  as  falls  a  wave 

With  choked  su^urrus  in  some  hollow 
cave, 

Brake  forth  my  life's  lament  and  bitter 
moan. 

I  shook  with  passionate  grief :  I  mur 
mured  :  "  Stay ! 

Have  I  not  sworn  to  give  thee  back 
thine  own  ? 

False  was  the  token,  false  !  "  She  an 
swered  :  "  Nay, 

It  says,  Farewell !  and  yonder  dawns 
the  day." 


No  more  !     I  said  farewell :  withdrawn 

afar, 
Still  faintly  came   to  me,  its  clasping 

shore, 
When    morning  drowned    the   wintry 

morning-star, 
Her  ebbing  life  ;   then  paused  —  and 

came  no  more ! 
And  blue  the  mocking  sky,  and  loud  th« 

-oar 


THE    CHILD. 


279 


Of  loosened  waters,  leaping  down  the 

glen  : 
The  songs  of  children  and  the  shouts  of 

men 
Flouted  the  awful  Shadow  at  my  door  ! 

XXVIII. 

And  chill  my  heart  became,  a  sepul 
chre 

Sealed  with  the  sudden  ice  of  frozen 
tears : 

I  sat  in  stony  calm,  and  looked  at  her,  • 

Flown  in  the  brightness  of  her  beau 
teous  years, 

And  not  a  pulse  with  conscious  sorrow 
beat; 

Nor,  when  they  robed  her  in  her  wind 
ing-sheet, 

Did  any  pang  my  silent  bosom  stir, 

But  pain,  like  bliss,  seemed  of  the  things 
that  were. 


With  cold  and  changeless  face  beside 
her  grave 

I  stood,  and  coldly  heard  the  shudder 
ing  sound 

Of  coffin  echoes,  smothered  under 
ground  : 

The  tints  I  marked,  the  mournful 
mountains  gave,  — 

Faces  and  garments  of  the  throngs 
around, — 

The  sexton's  knotted  hands,  the  light 
and  shade 

That  strangely  through  the  moving  col 
ors  played,  — 

So,  feeling  dead,  Art's  habit  held  me 
bound ! 


Yet,  very  slowly,  Feeling's  self  was 
born 

Of  chance  forgetf ulness :  when  mead 
ows  took 

A  greener  hem  along  the  winding  brook, 

And  buds  were  halrny  in  the  fresh  May- 
morn, 

Oft  would  I  turn,  as  though  her  step  to 
wait ; 

Or  ask  the  songless  echoes  why  so  -late 

Her  song  delayed ;  or  from  my  lonely 
bed 

At  midnight  start,  and  weep  to  find  her 
fed! 


XXXI. 

And  with  the  pains  of  healing  came  a 

care 
For  him,  her  child  :  she  had  not  wholly 

died ; 

And  what  of  her  lost  being  he  might  wear 
Was  doubly  mine  through  all  the  years 

untried, 
To  lore,  and  give  me  love.    Him  would 

I  bear 
Beyond  the  Alps,  forth  from  this  fatal 

zone, 
To  make  his  mother's  land  and  speech 

his  own, 
And  keep  her  beauty   at  his  father's 

side ! 

XXXII. 

So  forth  we  fared  :  the  faithful  peasant 
nurse 

Who  guarded  now  his  life,  should  guard 
it  still. 

We  hastened  on :  there  seemed  a  brood 
ing  curse 

Upon  the  valley.     Many  a  brawling  rill 

We  left  behind,  and  many  a  darksome  hill, 

Long  fens,  and  clay-white  rivers  of  the 
plain, 

Then  mountains  clad  in^thunder,  —  and 
again 

Soared  the  high  Alps,  and  sparkled, 
white  and  chill. 


To  seek  some  quiet,  southward-opening 

vale 

Beside  the  Adige,  was  my  first  design  ; 
And  sweetly  hailed  along  the  Brenner's 

line 
With  songs  of  Tyrol,  welcomed  by  the 

gale 
That  floated  from  the  musky  slopes  of 

vine, 
With  summer  on  its  wings,  I  wandered 

down 
To  fix   our  home  in   some  delightful 

town,  — 
But   when  the   first  we  reached,  there 

came  a  sign. 


The  belli  were  tolling,  —  not  with  nup 
tial  joy, 

But  heavily,  sadly :  down  tbe  winding 
street 


280 


THE   PICTURE   OF  ST.  JOHN. 


The  pattering  tumult  came  of  children's 

feet, 
Followed  by  men  who  bore  a  snow-pale 

boy 
Upon   a    flowery  bier.     The   sunshine 

clung, 
Caressing  brow  and  cheek,  —  he  was  so 

young 
Even  Nature  felt  her  darling's  loss,  — 

and  sweet 
The  burial  hymn  by  childish  mourners 

sung. 

XXXV. 

"  He  must  not  see  the  dead  !  "  Thus 
unto  me  • 

The  nurse,  and  muffled  him  with  tremb 
ling  hand. 

But  something  touched,  in  that  sad  har 
mony, 

The  infant's  soul :  he  struggled  and  was 
free 

A  moment,  saw  the  dead,  nor  could  with 
stand 

The  strange  desire  that  hungered  in  his 
eye, 

And  stretched  his  little  arms,  and  made 
a  cry, — 

While  she,  in  foolish  terror,  turned  to 
me  : 


"  Now,  God   have  mercy,  master !  rest 

not  here, 

Or  he  will  die  !  "   'T  was  but  the  cause 
less  whim 

Of  ignorance,  and  yet,  a  formless  fear 
O'ercame  my  heart,  and  darkly  menaced 

him 
As  with  his  mother's  fond,  foreboding 

dread : 
Then,  wild  with  haste  to  lift  the  shadow 

dim 
Which  seemed  already  settling  round 

his  head, 
That  hour  we  left,  and  ever  southward 

sped. 


Past  wondrous  mountains,  peaked  with 

obelisks, 

With  pyramids  and  domes  of  dolomite 
That   burned   vermilion   in  the   dying 

light,  — 
Crags  where  the  hunter  with  a  thousand 

risks 
The     steinbok     follows,  —  world      of 

strength  and  song 


Under  the  stars    among  the  fields  of 

white, 
While  deep  below,  the  broad  vale  winds 

along 
Through  corn  and  wine,  secure  from 

winter's  wrong ! 


My  plan  complete,  the  foolish  servi- 
tress 

Back  to  her  dark  Bohemian  home  I  sent, 

And  gave  my  boy  to  one  whose  gentle 
ness 

Fell  gentlier  frorfl  her  Tuscan  tongue. 
We  went 

B'y  lonely  roads,  where  over  Garda's 
lake 

Their  brows  the  cloven-hearted  mount 
ains  bent, 

To  lands  divine,  where  Como's  waters 
make 

Twin  arms,  to  clasp  them  for  their 
beauty's  sake  ! 


There   ceased   my  wanderings,   finding 

what  I  sought : 
The   charms   of   water,   earth,  and   air 

allied,  — 
Secluded  homes,  with  prospects  free  and 

wide 
Around  a  princely  world,  which  thither 

brought 

Only  the  aspect  of  its  holiday, 
And  made  its  emulous,  unsleeping  pride 
Put  on  the  yoke  of  Nature,  and  obey 
Her  mood  of  ornament,  her  summer  play. 


The  shapely  hills,  whose  summits  tow 
ered  remote 

In  rosy  air,  might  smile  in  soft  disdain 
Of  palaces  that  strung  a  jewelled  chain 
About  their  feet,  and  far-off,  seemed  to 

float 

On  violet-misted  waters  ;  yet  they  wore 
Their  groves  and  gardens  like  a  festal 

train, 

And  in  the  mirror  of  the  crystal  plain 
Steep  vied  with  steep,  shore   emulated 
shore ! 


Above  Bellagio,  on  the  ridge  that  leans 
To  meet,  on  either  side,  the  parted  blue, 


THE   CHILD. 


281 


There  is  a    cottage,  which    the    olive 

screens 
From  sight  of  those  who  come  the  pomp 

to  view 

Of  Villa  Serbelloni :  thrust  apart 
Beside  a  quarry  whence  the  pile  they 

drew,  — 
A  home  for  simple  needs  and  straitened 

means, 
For  lonely  labor  and  a  brooding  heart. 


Too  young  was  I,  too  filled  with  blood 
and  fire, 

To  clothe  myself  with  ultimate  despair. 

Drinking  with  eager  breast  that  idle  air, 

Color  with  eyes  new-bathed,  that  could 
not  tire, 

And  stung  by  form,  and  wooed  by  mov 
ing  grace, 

And  warmed  with  beauty,  should  I  not 
aspire 

My  misty  dreams  with  substance  to  re 
place, 

Nor  ghosts  beget,  but  an  immortal  race  ? 


Yea !  rather  close,  as  in  a  sainted  shrine, 
My  life's  most  lovely,  tender  episode, 
Renounce  the  ordination  it  bestowed, 
And  only  taste  its  sacramental  wine 
In  those  brief  Sabbaths,  when  the  heart 

demands 

Solemn  repose  and  sustenance  divine  ! 
Yet  lives   the  Artist  in  these  restless 

hands, 
And  waiting,   here,   the  rich  material 

stands  ! 


XLIV. 

Had  I  not  sought,  I  asked  myself,  the 

far 
Result,   and    haughtily    disdained    the 

source  ? 

From    myriad    threads    hangs    many- 
stranded  Force,  — 
Compact  of  gloomy  atoms,  burns  the 

star! 
Of  earth   are  all  foundations;   and  of 

old 
On  mounds  of  clay  were  lifted  to  their 

place 

Shafts  of  eternal  temples.     We  behold 
The  noble  end,  whereto  no  means  are 

base. 


I  loved  my  work ;  and  therefore  vowed 
to  love 

All  subjects,  finding  Art  in  everything, — 

The  angel's  plumage  in  the  bird's  plain 
wing,  — 

Until  such  time  as  I  might  rise  above 

The  conquered  matter,  to  the  power  su 
preme 

Which  takes,  rejects,  adorns,  —  a  right 
ful  king, 

Whose  hand  completes  the  subtly-hinted 
scheme, 

And  blends  in  equal  truth  the  Fact  and 
Dream ! 


And 


life, 


now  commenced   a  second 

wherein 

Myself  and  Agatha  and  Angelo 
Beheld  the   lonely  seasons  come  and 

g°. 

Contented,  —  whether  gray  with  hoar 
frost  thin 

The  aloes  stiffened,  or  the  passion-flower 

Enriched  the  summer  heats,  or  autumn 
shower 

Rejoiced  the  yellow  fig-leaves  wide  to 
blow :  — 

So  still  that  life,  we  scarcely  felt  ita 
flow. 


How  guileless,  sweet,   the  infancy  he 

knew, 
Loved  for  his  own  and  for  his  mother'a 

sake! 

How  fresh  in  sunny  loveliness  he  grew, 
Fanned  by  the  breezes  of  the  Larian 

lake. 

My  little  Angelo,  my  baby-friend, 
My  boy,  my  blessing  !  —  while  for  him 

I  drew 
A  thousand  futures,  brightening  to  the 

end; 
Long  paths  of  light,  with  ne'er  a  cloudy 

break ! 

XLVIII. 

For,  lisping  in  a  sweeter  tongue  than 

mine, 
'T  was  his  delight  around  the  spot  to 

play 
Where   fast   I  wrought    in    unillusive 

day,  — 
Where   he  might  chase  from  rock  or 

rustling  vine 


282 


THE  PICTURE  OF   ST.  JOHN. 


The  golden  lizard ;   seek  the  mellow 

peach, 
Wind-shaken  ;    or,   where   spread    the 

branchy  pine 

His  coverture  of  woven  shade  and  shine, 
Sleep,  lulled  by  murmurs  of  the  pebbly 

beaten. 


Along  San  Prime's  chestnut-shaded 
sides, 

Through  fields  of  thyme  and  spiky  lav 
ender 

And  yellow  broom,  wherein  the  she-goat 
hides 

Her  yeanling  kid,  and  wild  bees  ever 
stir 

The  drifted  blossoms,  — high  and  breezy 
downs,  — 

I  led  his  steps,  and  watched  his  young 
eye  glance 

In  brightening  wonder  o'er  the  fair  ex 
panse 

Of  mountain,  lake,  and  lake-reflected 
towns ! 


Or,  crossing  to  the  lofty  Lcccan  shore, 
I  bade  him  see  the  Fiume-latte  leap 
Through   shivered  rainbows  down  the 

hollow  steep, 

A  meteor  of  the  morning ;  high  and  hoar 
The  Alp  that  fed  it  leaned  against  the 

blue,  — 

But  siren-voices  chanted  in  the  roar, 
Enticing,    mocking  :    shudderingly    he 

drew 
Back  from  the  shifting  whirls  of  endless 

dew. 


T  was  otherwise,  when  borne  in  danc 
ing  bark 

Across  the  wave,  where  Sommariva's 
walls 

Flash  from  the  starred  magnolia's 
breathing  dark, 

High  o'er  its  terraced  roses,  fountain- 
falls 

A.nd  bosky  laurels.     In  that  garden  he 

Chirruped  and  fluttered  like  a  callow 
lark, 

With  dim  fore-feeling  of  the  azure 
free, 

Sustaining  wing  and  strength  of  song 
ful  glee  1 


No  thing  that  I  might  paint,  —  a  sunset 

cloud, 

A  rosy  islet  of  the  amber  sky,  — 
A  lily-branch,  —  the  azure-emerald  dye 
Of  neck  and  crest  that  makes  the  pea 
cock  proud,  — 

Or  plume  of  fern,  or  berried  ivy-braid, 
Or  sheen  of  sliding  waters,  —  e'er  could 

vie 

With  the  least  loveliness  his  form  con 
veyed 

In  outline,  motion,  daintiest  light  and 
shade. 


Not  yet  would  I  indulge  the  rapturous 
task, 

The  crown  of  labor ;  though  my  weary 
brain 

Ached  from  the  mimicry  of  Nature's 
mask, 

And  yearned  for  human  themes.  It 
was  in  vain, 

My  vow,  that  patient  bondage  to  sus 
tain: 

Some  unsubdued  desire  began  to  ask  : 

"  How  shall  these  soulless  images  be 
warmed  ? 

Or  Life  be  learned  from  matter  unin 
formed  ?  " 


"  Then  Life !  "  I  said  :  "  but  cautiously 

and  slow, — 

Pure  human  types,  that,  from  the  com 
mon  base 

By  due  degrees  the  spirit  find  its  place, 
And  climb  to  passion  and  supernal  glow 
Of  Heaven's  beatitude.    The  level  track 
Once  let  me  tread,  nor  need  to  stoop  so 

low 
Beneath  my  dreams,  and  thus  their  hope 

efface,  — 

But  late,  in  nobler  guise,  receive  them 
back." 


So,  venturing  no  further,  I  began 

The   work  I   craved,  and  only  what  I 

found 

In  limber  child,  or  steely-sinewed  man, 
Or  supple   maiden,  drew:   within  that 

bound 

Such  excellence  I  saw,  as  told  how  much, 
Despising  truth,  I  strayed  :  with  reverent 

touch 


THE   CHILD. 


28* 


Sod's  architecture  did  my  pencil  trace 
In  joint  and  limb,  as  in  the  go  Hike  face. 


Each  part  expressed  its  nicely-measured 

share 

In  the  mysterious  being  of  the  whole  : 
Not  from  the  eye  or  lip  looked  forth  the 

soul, 

But  made  her  habitation  everywhere 
Within  the   bounds  of  flesh;  and   Art 

might  steal, 
As  once,  of  old,   her  purest  triumphs 

there. 

Go  see  the  headless  Ilioneus  kneel, 
And  thou  the  torso's  agony  shait  feel  1 


The  blameless  spirit  of  a  lofty  aim 
Sees  not  a  line  that  asks  to  be  concealed 
By  dexterous  evasion  ;  but,  revealed 
As  truth  demands,  doth  Nature   smite 

with  shame 

Them,  who  with  artifice  of  ivy-leaf 
Unsex  the  splendid  loins,  or  shrink  the 

frame 
From  life's  pure  honesty,  as  shrinks  a 

thief, 
While  stands  a  hero  ignorant  of  blame  ! 


What  joy  it  was,   from  dead  material 

forms, 

Opaque,   one-featured,   and    unchange 
able, 
To  turn,  and  track  the  shifting  life  that 

warms 
The    shape    of    Man! — within   whose 

texture  dwell 
Uncounted   lines  of  beauty,  tints   un- 

guessed 
*)n   luminous    height,  in  softly-shaded 

dell, 
^.nd    myriad    postures,  moving  or  at 

rest,  — 
All  phases  fair,  and  each,  in  turn,  the 

best  1 


The  rich  ideal  promise  these  convey, 
Which  in  the  forms  of  Earth  can  never 

live. 
Each  plastic  soul  has  yet  the  power  to 

give 
V  separate  model  to  its  subject  clay, 


And  finely  works  its  tanning  likenes* 

out : 

To  men  a  block,  to  me  a  statue  lay 
In  each,  distinct  in  being,  draped  about 
With   mystery,  touched  with  Beauty 't 

random  ray  I 


Now  Fame  approached,  when  I  expected 

least 
Her  noisy  greeting:  't  was  the  olden 

tale. 

Half -scorn  fully  I    gave ;    yet  men  in 
creased 
Their  golden  worth,  the  more  I  felt 

them  fail, 

My  painful  counterfeits  of  lifeless  things. 
"  Behold  !  "  they  cried  :  "  this  wondrous 

artist  brings 
Each  leaf  and  vein  of  meadow-blossoms 

pale, 
The  agate's  streaks,  the  meal  of  mothy 

wings !  " 


And  truly,  o'er  a  wayside-weed   they 

raised 

A  sound  of  marvel,  found  in  lichen-rust 
Of  ancient  stones  a  glory,  stood  amazed 
To  view  a  melon,  gray  with  summer 

dust, 

And  so  these  rudimental  labors  praised, 
The  Tempter  whispered  to  my  nattered 

ear: 
"  Why  seek  the  unattained,  —  thy  fame 

is  here ! " 
"  Avaunt ! "  I  cried  :  "  in  mine  own  soul 

I  trust ! " 


A  little  while,  I  thought,  and  I  shall 

know 

The  stamp  and   sentence  of  my  des 
tiny,  — 
The  fateful  crisis,  whence  my  life  shall 

be 

A  power,  a  triumph,  an  immortal  show 
A  kindling  inspiration :  or  be  classed 
(As  many  a  noble  brother  in  the  Past) 
Pictor  Ignotus :  as  it  happens,  so 
Shall  turn  the  fortunes  of  my  Angelo ! 


For  in  his  childish  life,  expanding  now, 
The  spirit  dawned  which  must  his  fut 
ure  guide,  — 


284 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN. 


The  little  prattler,  with  his  open  brow, 
His  clear,  dark  eye,  his  mouth  too  sweet 

for  pride, 

Too  proud  for  infancy  !     "My  boy,  de 
cide," 

I  said :  "  wilt  painter  be  ?  or  rather  lord 
Over    a    marble    house,   a    steed    and 

sword  ?  " 

His  visage  flashed:  he  paused  not,  but 
replied : 


"  Give  me  a  marble  house,  as  white  and 

tall 
As  Sommariva's !     Give  me  horse  and 

hound, 
A  golden  sword,  and  servants  in  the 

hall, 

And  thou  and  I  be  masters  over  all, 
My  father !  "     In  that  hope   a  joy  he 

found, 
And  oft  in  freaks  of  fancied   lordship 

made 
The  splendors  his :  ah,  boy !  thy  wish 

betrayed 
The  blood  that  beats  to  rise,  and  dare 

not  fall. 


Did  Clelia's  spirit  yearn,  what  time  she 
bore 

The  unborn  burden,  for  her  lost  estate  ? 

Home-sick  and  pining,  lorn  and  deso 
late 

Except  for  love,  did  she,  in  thought, 
count  o'er 

The  graceful  charms  of  that  luxurious 
nest 

Wherefrom  I  stole  her?  Then  was  I 
nnblest, 

Wave  he  inherited  her  pilfered  fate, 

And  trod,  for  her,  Pandolfo's  palace- 
floor. 


'/he  current  of  my  dreams,  directed  thus, 

Flowed  ever  swifter,  evermore  to  him. 

Along  the  coves  where  stripling  boat 
men  swim 

I  watched  him  oft,  like  Morn's  young 
Genius, 

Dropped  from  her  rose-cloud  on  me 
silver  sand, 

Her  rosy  breath  upon  each  ivory  limb 

Kissed  by  the  clasping  waters,  green 
and  dim, 

And  craved  the  hour  when  he  should 
bless  my  hand. 


The  seasons  came  and  went.    In  sun  or 

frost 
Twinkled   the  olive,   shook  the   aspen 

bough : 
In  winter  whiteness    shone  Legnone's 

brow, 

Or  cooled  his  fiery  rocks  in  skyey  blue 
When  o'er  the   ruffled   lake   the   breva 

tossed 
The   struggling    barks:   their  cups   of 

snow  and  dew 
The  dark  magnolias  held,  and  purpling 

poured 

The  trampled  blood  from  many  a  vine 
yard's  hoard. 


Five  years  had  passed,  and  now  the  time 

was  nigh 
When  on  the  fond  result  my  hand  must 

stake 
Its  cunning,  —  when  the  slowly-tutored 

eye 
Must  .lend  the  heart  its    discipline,  to 

make 
Secure  the   throbbing  hope,  to  which, 

elate, 
My  long  ambition  clung :   and,  with  a 

sigh, 

"  If  foiled,"  I  said,  "  let  silence  conse 
crate 
My  noteless  name,  and  hide  my  ruined 

fate !  " 


It  was  an   autumn  morn,  when  I  ad 
dressed 

Myself  unto  the  work.     A  violet  haze 
Subdued  the  ardor  of  the  golden  days  : 
A  glassy  solitude  was  Como's  breast  : 
Far,   far  away,  from   out    the  fading 

maze 
Of  mountains,  blew  the  flickering  sound 

of  bells  : 
The  earth  lay  hushed  as  in  a  Sabbath 

rest, 

And  from  the  air  came  voiceless,  sweet 
farewells !  " 


My  choicest  colors,  on  the  palette  spread, 
Provoked  the  appetite  :  the  canvas  clear 
Wooed  from  the  easel :  o'er  his  noblo 
Lead 


THE   CHILD. 


285 


The  faint  light  fell :  his   perfect  body 

shed 

A  sunny  whiteness  on  the  atmosphere,  — 
All  aspects  gladsomeiy  invited  :  yet 
Across  my  heart  there  swept  a  wave  of 

dread,  — 
The  first  lines  trembled  which  my  crayon 

set. 


The  background,  lightly  sketched,  re 
vealed  a  wild 

Storm-shadowed  sweep  of  Ammon's 
desert  hills, 

Whose  naked  porphyry  no  dew-fed 
rills 

Touched  with  descending  green,  but 
rent  and  piled 

As  thunder-split :  behind  them,  glimmer 
ing  low, 

The  falling  sky  disclosed  a  lurid  bar : 

In  front,  a  rocky  platform,  where,  a 
star 

Of  lonely  life,  I  meant  his  form  should 
glow. 


The  God-selected  child,  there  should  he 

stand, 

Alone  and  rapt,  as  from  the  world  with 
drawn 

To  seek,  amid  the  desolated  land, 
His   Father's  counsel :    in   one   tender 

hand 

A  cross  of  reed,  to  lightly  rest  upon, 
The  other  hand  a  scrolled  phylactery 
Should,  hanging,  hold,  —  as  it  the  seed 

might  be 

Wherefrom  the  living  Gospel  shall  ex 
pand. 


A  simple  theme :  why,  therefore,  should 

my  faith 
[n  mine   own   skill  forsake  me  ?   why 

should  seem 
.His  beauteous  presence  strangely  like  a 

dream,  — 
His    shining    form    an  .unsubstantial 

wraith  ? 

vVas  it  the   mother's  warning,  thus  im 
pressed 
To   stay  my  hand,  or,  working  in  my 

breast, 
That  dim,  dread  Power,  that  monitor 

supreme, 
Whose  mystic  ways  and  works  no  Script- 

uie  saith  ? 


LXXIV. 

I  dropped  the  brush,  and,  to  assure  my 
heart, 

Now  vanquished  quite,  with  quick,  im 
passioned  start 

Caught  up  the  boy,  and  kissed  him  o'er 
and  o'er,  — 

Cheek,  bosom,  limbs,  —  and  felt  his 
pulses  beat 

Secure  existence,  till  my  dread,  dispelled, 

Became  a  thing  to  smile  at :  then,  once 
more 

My  hand  regained  its  craft,  and  followed 
fleet 

The  living  lines  my  filmless  eyes  beheld. 


And  won  those  lines,  and  tracked  the 
subtle  play 

Where  cold,  keen  light,  without  a 
boundary, 

Through  warmth,  lapsed  into  shadow's 
mystic  gray, 

And  other  light  within  that  shadow  la) , 

A  maze  of  beauty,  —  till,  outwearied,  he 

With  drooping  eyelid  stood  and  totter 
ing  knee ; 

While  I,  withdrawn  to  gaze,  with  eager 
lip 

Murmured  my  joy  in  mine  own  work 
manship. 


I  clothed  his  limbs  again,  and  led  him 
out 

To  welcome  sunshine  and  his  glad  re 
ward, 

A  scarlet  belt,  a  tiny,  gilded  sword,  — 

And  long  our  bark,  the  sleeping  shores 
about 

Sped  as  we  willed,  that  happy  after 
noon  : 

And  sweet  the  evening  promise  (ah !  too 
soon 

It  came,)  of  what  the  morrow  should 
afford,  — 

An  equal  service  and  an  equal  boon  ! 

LXXVII. 

But  on  the  pier  a  messenger  I  found 
From  Milan,  where  the  borrowed  name 

I  bore 
Was  known,  he  said,  and   more  than 

half-renowned ; 
And  now  a  bright  occasion  offered  me 


286 


THE   PICTURE   OP   ST.  JOHN. 


A  fairer  crown  than  yet  my  forehead 

wore,  — 

A  range  of  palace-chambers  to  adorn 
Withsportive  frescoes,  nymphs  of  Earth 

and  Sea, 
Pursuing   Hours,  and  marches  of  the 

Mom ! 


It  steads  not  now  that  joirney  to  repeat, 

Which  flattered,  toyed,  but  nothing  sure 
bestowed. 

When  four  unrestful  days  were  sped, 
my  feet, 

With  yearning  shod,  retraced  the  home 
ward  road, 

With  each  glad  minute  nearing  our  re 
treat,  — 

Mine  eyes,  when  far  away  Bellagio 
showed 

Beyond  Tremezzo,  straining  to  explore 

Some  speck  of  welcome  on  the  distant 
shore. 


1  hen  came  the  town,  the  vineyards  and 

the  hill, 
The  cottage  :  soft  the  orange   sunset 

shone 
Upon  its  walls,  —  but   everything  was 

still, 
So  still  and   strange,  my  heart  might 

well  disown 
The  startled  sense  that  gazed  :  the  door 

ajar,  — 
The  chambers  vacant,  —  ashes   on   the 

stone 
Where  lit  his  torch  my  shy,  protecting 

Lar,  — 
Dark,  empty,  lifeless  all :  I  stood  alone  ! 

LXXX. 

As  one  who  in  an  aucieni  forest  walks 

-n  awful  midnight,  when  the  moon  is 
dim, 

And  knows  not  What  behind,  or  near 
him,  stalks, 

And  fears  the  rustling  leaf,  the  snap 
ping  limb, 

And  cannot  cry,  and  scarce  can  breathe, 
so  great 

The  nameless  Terror,  —  thus  I  sought 
for  him, 

Yet  feared  to  find  him,  lest  the  darkest 
fate 

Should  touch  my  life  and  leave  it  deso 
late  ! 


The  search  was  vain  :  they  both  had 
disappeared, 

My  boy  and  Agatha,  nor  missed  I  aught 

Of  food,  or  gold,  or  pictures.  Had  she 
sought, 

The  nurse,  a  livelier  home,  and  loved  or 
feared 

Too  much,  to  leave  him  ?  Or  some  en 
emy, 

Fell  and  implacable,  this  ruin  brought,— 

This  thunder-stroke  1  No  answer  could 
I  see, 

Nor  prop  whereon  to  rest  my  anguished 
thought. 


As  casts  away  a  drowning  man  his  gold, 
I  cast  the  Artist  from  my  life,  and  forth, 
A  Father  only,  wandered :  south  or 

north 
I  knew  not,  save  the  heart  within  me 

hold 
Love's  faithful  needle,  ever  towards  him 

drawn, 
Felt  and  obeyed  without  the  conscious 

will: 
And  first,  by  nestling  town  and  purple 

hill, 
To  Garda's  lake  I  swiftly  hastened  on. 


And  thence  a  new,  mysterious  impulse 
led 

My  steps  along  the  Adige,  day  by  day, 

To  seek  that  village  where  we  saw  the 
dead, — 

A  fantasy  wherein  some  madness  lay  ; 

For  years  had  passed,  and  he  a  babe  so 
young 

That  each  impression  with  its  object  fled . 

Not  so  with  mine,  —  my  roused  fore 
bodings  flung 

That  scene  to  light,  and  there  insanely 
clung. 


I  found  the  village,  but  its  people  knew 
No  tidings  :  wearily  awhile  I  trod 
Among  black  crosses  in  the  churchyard 

sod, 
But  who   could   guess  the  boy's  ?  and 

why  pursue 

A  sickly  fancy  ?     In  that  peopled  vale 
Death  is  not  rare,  alas  !  nor  burials  few 


THE   PICTURE. 


287 


And  soon  the  grassy  coverbt  of  God 
Spreads  equal  green  above  their  ashes 
pale. 

LXXXV. 

'T  was  eve :  upon  a  lonely  mound  I 

sank 

That  held  no  more  its  votive  immortelles, 
And,    over-worn     and    half-despairing, 

drank 

The  vesper  pity  of  the  distant  bells, 
Till  sleep  or  trance  descended,  and  my 

brain 

Forgot  its  echoes  of  eternal  knells, 
Effaced  its  ceaseless  images  of  pain, 
And,  blank  and  helpless,  knew  repose 

again. 

LXXXVI. 

I  dreamed,  —  or  was  it  dream  ?  My  An- 

gelo 
Called  somewhere  out  of  distant  space  : 

I  heard, 
Like   faint    but   clearest   music,   every 

word. 


"  Come,  father,  come !  "  he  said ;   "  it 

shines  like  snow, 
My  house  of  marble :  I  've  a  speaking 

bird  : 

A  thousand  roses  in  my  garden  grow: 
My  fountains  fall  in  basins  dark  as  wine  : 
Come  to  me,  father,  —  all  is  yours  and 

mine ! " 


LXXXVII. 

And  then,   one  fleeting  moment,  blew 

aside 
The  hovering  mist  of  Sleep,  and  I  could 

trace 

The  phantom  beauty  of  his  joyous  face  : 
And,  whitely  glimmering,  o'er  him  I 

espied 
A   marble    porch    of   stem    Palladian 

grace,  — 
Then  faded   all.     The   rest  my  heart 

supplied : 

Pandolfo's  palace  on  my  vision  broke  : 
"  I  come  !  "  I  cried ;  and  with  the  cry 

awoke. 


BOOK  IV. 


THE  PICTURE. 


As  when  a  traveller,  whose  journey  lies 
In  some  still  valley,  slowly  wanders  on 
By  brook  and  meadow,  cottage,  bower, 

and  lawn,  — 

Familiar  sights,  that  charm  his  level  eyes 
For  many  a  league,  until,  with  late  sur 
prise 
He  starts  to  find  those  gentle  regions 

gone, 
And  through  the  narrowing  dell,  whose 

crags  enclose 
His  path,  irresolutely,  sadly  goes  : 


For  what  may  wait  beyond,  he  cannot 
guess, 

,1  garden  or  a  desert,  —  in  such  wise 

i  went,  in  ignorance  that  mocked  the 
guise 

Of  hope,  and  filled  me  with  obscure  dis 
tress. 


Locked  in  a  pass  of  doubt,  whose  cliffs 

concealed 

The  coming  life,  the  temper  of  the  skies, 
I  craved    the  certain   day,  that    soon 

should  rise 
Upon  a  fortunate  or  fatal  field ! 


The  House  of  Life  hath  many  chambers. 

He 
Who  deems  his  mansion  built,  a  dreamer 

vain, 
A  tottering  shell  inhabits,   and    shall 

see 
The    ruthless    years    hurl    down    his 

masonry  ; 
While  they  who  plan  but  as  they  slowly 

gain, 
Where  that  which  was  gives  that  which 

is  to  be 
Its  form  and  symbols,  build  the  house 

divine,  — 
In  life  a  temple,  and  in  death  a  shrine ! 


288 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN. 


And  following  as  the  guiding  vision  led, 
With  briefest  rest,  with  never-faltering 

feet, 
By   highways  white,  through  field  or 

chattering  street 

Or  windy  gorges  of  the  hills  I  sped, 
And  crossed  the  level  floors  of  silk  and 

wine, 
The  slow  canals,  and,  shrunken  in  their 

bed, 

The  sandy  rivers,  till  the  welcome  line 
Before  me  rose  of  Tuscan  Apennine. 


The  southern  slopes,  with  shout  and 
festal  song, 

Rejoiced  in  vintage  :  as  I  wandered  by, 

Came  faun-like  figures,  purple  to  the 
thigh 

From  foaming  vats,  and  laughing  wom 
en,  strong 

To  bear  their  Bacchic  loads :  then,  to 
wards  the  town 

Through  blended  toil  and  revel  hasten 
ing  down, 

I  saw  the  terrace  —  saw,  and  checked  a 
cry,  — 

Whence  Clelia  flung  to  me  the  jasmine 
crown  ! 


Alas !    how    changed    from    him    that 

wreath  who  wore,  — 
The  youth  all  rapture,  hope  and  sense 

uncloyed, 
New-landed   on    the   world's  illumined 

shore,  — 
Walked  now  the  man  !     My  downward 

path  before 
There  sprang  no  arch  of  triumph  from 

the  void : 

No  censers  burned :  not  as  a  conqueror 
I  entered  Florence,  —  no  !   a  slave,  that 

fed 
On  one  last  fragment  of  the  feast  I 

spread. 


There  stretched  the  garden-wall :   the 

yellow  sun 

Above  it  burnished  every  cypress  spire, 
Tipped    the    tall    laurel-clumps    with 

points  of  fire, 
AM  smote  the  palace-marbles  till  they 

won 


The  golden  gleam  of  ages.    Yet,  above 
That  mellow  splendor  stood  the  beauty 

flown 
Of  midnights,  when  around  it  blew  and 

shone 
The  breeze  of  Passion  and  the  moon  cf 

Love! 


At  last  —  the  door!  With  trembling 
touch  I  tried 

The  latch :  it  shook :  the  rusty  bolta 
gave  way. 

As  in  a  dream  the  roses  I  espied, 

Heard  as  in  dreams  the  fountain's  lull 
ing  play. 

There  curled  the  dolphins  in  the  shining 
shower 

And  rode  the  Triton  boys :  on  either  side 

The  turf  was  diapered  with  many  a 
flower,  — 

And  darkling  drooped  our  green  be 
trothal  bower. 


Scarce  had  I  entered,  when  there  came 

a  sound 

Of  voices  from  the  pillared  portico,  — 
And  twofold  burst  a  cry,  as  Angelo, 
Across   the    paths,   with  wildly-joyous 

bound 

Sprang  to  my  bosom  :  while,  as  one  as 
tound 

With  sense  of  some  unexpiated  wrong, 
The  nurse  entreated :  "  Bid  thy  father 

go!" 

But  "  Stay !  "  he  cried  :   "  where  hast 
thou  been  so  long  1 " 


"  Stay,  father  !  thou  shalt  paint  me  as 
thou  wilt, 

Each  morning,  in  the  silent  northern 
hall; 

But  when,  so  tired,  thou  seest  mine  eye 
lids  fall, 

Then  shall  I  take  my  sword  with  golden 
hilt, 

And  call  the  grooms,  and  bid  them  sad 
dle  straight 

For  us  the  two  white  horses  in  the 
stall  —  " 

Here  shrieked  the  nurse,  with  face  of 
evil  fate, 

"  Go,  Signor,  go  !  —  ah,  God  !  too  late 
—  too  late  ! " 


THE   PICTURE. 


289 


His  haste  dividing,  him  to  clasp  I  knelt 
'Twixt  porch,  and  fountain,  blind  with 

tearful  joy 

As  on  my  breast  his  beating  heart  I  felt, 
And  on  my  mouth  the  kisses  of  the  boy, 
Wherein  his  mother's  phantom  kisses 

poured 

A  stream  of  ancient  rapture,  love  re 
stored,  — 
When,  like  the  lightning  ere  the  stroke 

is  dealt, 

Before  me  flashed  the  old  Marchese's 
sword ! 


So    haggard,    sunken-eyed,    convulsed 

with  wrath 

That  paints  a  devil  on  the  face  of  age, 
He  glared,  that,  quick  to  shield  my  child 

from  scath,  — 
To    fly    the    menace    of    unreasoning 

rage,  — 
I  caught  him  in  my  cloak,  and  dashed 

apart 

The  tangled  roses  of  the  garden-path : 
Pandolfo  —  hate   such  fatal    swiftness 

hath  — 
Leapt  in  advance,  and  thrust  to  pierce 

my  heart ! 


I  saw  the  flame-like  sparkle  of  the 
blade : 

Heard,  sharp  and  shrill,  the  nurse's  fear 
ful  cry : 

Warm  blood  gushed  o'er  my  hands  :  a 
fluttering  sigh 

Came  from  the  childish  lips,  that  feebly 
made 

These  words,  as  prompted  by  the  dark 
ening  eye, 

"  Good-night,  my  father !  "  And  I  knew 
not  why 

My  boy  should  sleep,  so  suddenly  and 
so  well,  — 

But  trembling  seized  me :  clasping  him, 
I  fell. 


Nor  loosed  my  hold,  although  I  dimly 
knew 

Pandolfo's  hand  let  fall  the  blade  ac 
curst, 

And  he,  his  race's  hoary  murderer,  burst 

The  awful  stillness  that  around  us  grew, 
19 


With  miserable  groans :  his  prostrate 
head 

Touched  mine,  as  helpless,  o'er  the  fad 
ing  dead, — 

His  hands  met  mine,  and  both  as  gently 
nursed 

The  limbs,  and  strove  to  stay  the  warmth 
that  fled. 


His  Past,  my  Future,  in  the  body  met,  — 
His  wrongs,  my  hopes,  —  the  selfsame 

fatal  blow 
Dashed  into  darkness :  blood  Lethean 

wet 

My  blighted  summer,  his  autumnal  snow, 
And  all  of  Life  did  either  life  forget, 
Except  the  piteous  death  between  us  :  so, 
Together  pressed,  involved  in  half-em 
brace, 
We  hung  above  the  cold,  angelic  face. 


"  Her  father,  why  should  Heaven  direct 

thy  hand 
Against  her  child,  thy  blood,  chastising 

thee  ?  " 
"  I  loved  the  boy  "  —   "  But  couldst  not 

pardon  me, 
His  father  1 "    "  Nay,  but  thou  thyself 

hadst  banned 
Beyond   forgiveness!"     "Even    at  his 

demand  ! " 
"  Ah,  no  !  for  his  sweet  sake  might  all 

things  be, 
Except  to  lose  him."   "  He  is  lost,  —  and 

we 
(Thou,  too,  old  man  ! )  are  childless  in 

the  land ! " 


Thus  brokenly,  scarce  knowing  what  we 

said, 
We  clung  like  drowning  men  beneath 

the  wave, 
That  nor  can   hurt  each  other,  nor  can 

save, 
But  breast  to  breast  with  iron  arms  are 

wed 

Till  Death  so  leaves  them.   Us  the  serv 
ants  led  — 
Pale,  awe-struck  helpers  —  through  the 

palace-door 
And  glimmering  halls,  to  lay  on  Clelia'§ 

bed 
The  broken  lily  we  together  bore. 


290 


THE   PICTURE  OF   ST.  JOHN. 


God's  thunder  stroke  his  haughty  heart 

had  bowed : 
It  bled  with  mine  among  the  common 

dust 
Where  Rank  puts  on  the  sackcloth  of 

the  crowd, 

And  sits  in  equal  woe  :  his  guilt  avowed, 
And  mine,  there  came  a  sad,  remorseful 

trust, 
And  while  the  double  midnight  gathered 

there 
From  sable  hangings  and  the  starless 

air, 
We  held  each  other's  hands,  and  wept 

aloud. 


And    he   confessed,   how,   after  weary 

search 
And  many  a  vain  device  employed,  he 

found 
By    chance    in    Zara,    on    Dalmatian 

ground, 

As  altar-piece  within  a  votive  church 
Some   shipwrecked   Plutus  built,  —  the 

Mother  mild 
In  whose  foreboding  face    my   Clelia 

smiled  ; 
And  thence,  by  slow  degrees,  to  Como's 

side 
Had  followed  home  the  trail  I  thought 

to  hide. 


And  there  had  seized  me,  but   the  boy 

displayed 

Patrician  beauty,  and  the  failing  line, 
Now  trembling  o'er  extinction,  might 

evade 
Its  fate  in  him.     This  changed  the  first 

design, 

And  w  hat  the  sordid  nurse  for  gold  be 
trayed 
Or  those  Art-hucksters  chattered,  easy 

made 
The  rape,  whose  issue  should,  with  even 

blow, 
Revenge  and  compensate :  but  now,  — 

ah,  woe ! 

XXI. 

The  issue  had  been  reached :  too  dark 

and  drear, 

Too  tragic,  pitiful,  and  heart-forlorn, 
Could    any    heart    contain    it,    to    be 

borne,  — 


And  mine  refused,  rebelled.   Behind  his 

bier 
No  meek-eyed  Resignation  walked,  or 

Grief 

That  catches  sunshine  in  each  falling  tear 
To  build  her  pious  rainbow  :  but  with 

scorn 
I  thrust  aside  the  truths  that  bring  relief. 


I  spurned,  though  kindly,  —  for  the  old 

man's  frame 
Stumbled  in  Death's  advancing  twilight, 

—  all 
His  offers  :  gold  —  the  proud  Pandolfan 

hall  — 
Place,  that  should  goad  the  lagging  feet 

of  Fame  — 

And  from  his  sombre  palace,  shudder 
ing  still, 
Cold  with  remembered  horror,  took  my 

name, 
My   own,   restored ;   and    climbed    the 

northern  hill 
As  one  who  lives,  though  dead  his  living 

will. 


Some  habit,  working  in  my  passive  feet, 
Its  guidance  gave :  the  mornings  came 

and  went : 
Around  me  spread  the  fields,  or  closed 

the  street, 

And  often,  Night's  expanded  firmament 
Opened  above  the  lesser  dome  of  Day, 
And  wild,  tumultuous  tongues  of  dark 
ness  sent 

To  vex  my  path,  —  till,  in  our  old  retreat, 
I  ceased  to  hold  my  reckless  heart  at 
bay ! 


Some  natures  are  there,  fashioned  ere 
their  birth 

For  sun,  and  spring-time,  and  the  bliss 
of  earth ; 

Who  only  sing,  achieve,  and  triumph, 
when 

The  Hours  caress,  and  each  bright  cir 
cumstance 

Leaps  to  its  place,  as  in  a  starry  dance, 

To  shape  their  story.  These  the  fortu 
nate  men, 

When  Fate  consents,  whose  lives  are 
ever  young, 

And  shine  around  whate'er  they  wrought 
or  sung ! 


THE  PICTUEE. 


291 


Akin  to  these  am  I,  —  or  deemed  it  so, 

And  thus  beyond  my  present  wreck  be 
held 

No  far-off  rescue.  All  my  mind,  im 
pelled 

By  some  blind  wrath  that  would  resent 
the  blow, 

Though  impotent,  caught  action  from 
despair, 

And  reached,  and  groped,  —  as  when  a 
man  lets  go 

A  jewel  in  the  dark,  and  seeks  it  where 

The  furzes  prick  him  and  the  brambles 
tear. 


The  clash  of  inconsistent  qualities 

No  labor  stayed,  or  beauteous  passion 

smoothed, 
But   each  let  loose,  and   grasping,  by 

degrees, 
Sole  sway,  made  chaos.     Turbulent,  un- 

soothed 
By   cither's  rule,  —  since   order  failed 

therein, 
And  hope,   the   tidal  star  of   restless 

seas,  — 
I  turned  from  every  height,  once  fair  to 

win, 
And  sinned  'gainst  Art  the  one   un- 

pardoned  sin ! 


For  thus  I  reasoned :  what  avail  my  gifts, 
Which  but  attract,  provoke  the  spoiling 

Fate  ?  — 

Nor  for  themselves  their  destinies  create, 
But  task  my  life ;  and  then  the  thunder 

rifts 
Their  laid  foundations  !     Why  of  finer 

nerve 
The   members  doomed    to  bear   more 

cruel  weight  ? 

Or  daintier  senses,  if  they  only  serve 
To  double  pangs,  already  doubly  great  ? 


Lo!  yonder  hind,  on  whom  doth  Life 
impose 

So  slight  a  burden,  finds  his  path  pre 
pared  ; 

Unthinking  fares  as  all  his  fathers  fared, 

&nd  cheap-won  joys  and  soon-subsiding 
woes 


Nor  cleave  his  heart  too  deep,  nor  lift 

too  high. 
Peaceful  as  dew-mist  from  an  evening 

sky 
The  years  descend,  until  they  bid  him 

close 
Upon  an  easy  world  a  quiet  eye  i 

XXIX. 

He  sees  the  shell  of  Earth  —  no  more  . 

yet  more 
Were  useless,  —  attributes  of  thankful 

toil ; 
The  olive  orchards,  dark  with,  ripening 

oil  ;     . 

The  misty  grapes,  the  harvests,  tawny- 
hoar ; 
The  glossy  melons,  swelling  from   the 

vine  ; 
The    breezy    lake,  alive  with  darting 

spoil ; 
And   dances  woo  from  yonder  purple 

shore, 
And  yonder  Alps  but  cool  his  summer 

wine  ! 


He  lives  the  common  life  of  Earth  :  she 
grants 

Result  to  instinct,  food  to  appetite : 

With  no  repressed  desire  his  bosom 
pants, 

Nor  that  self-torturing,  questioning  in 
ward  sight 

Vexes  his  light,  unconscious  conscious 
ness. 

He  loves,  and  multiplies  his  life,  —  no 
less 

His  virile  pride  and  fatherly  delight ; 

And  all  that  smites  me,  visits  him  jo 
bless. 


If  this  the  law,  that  narrower  powers 
enjoy 

Their  use,  denied  the  greater,  — nay,  are 
nursed 

And  helped,  while  these  their  energies 
destroy 

In  baffled  aspirations,  crossed  and  cursed 

By  what  with  brightening  promise  lured 
them  on,  — 

Then  life  is  false,  its  purposes  reversed, 

Its  luck  for  those  who  leave  its  veils  un 
drawn, 

And  Art  the  mocking  glory  of  its  dawn 


£92 


THE  PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN. 


Not  calmly,  as  my  memory  now  re 
calls 

The  crisis,  —  fierce,  vehemently,  I 
tracked  v 

The  fatal  truth  through  every  potent 
fact 

Of  being  :  now  in  fancied  carnivals 

Of  sense  abiding,  now  with  gloomy  face 

Fronting  the  deeper  question  that  ap 
palls, 

Of  "  Wherefore  Life  ?  and  what  this 
brawling  Face, 

Peopling  a  mote  of  dust  in  endless 
space  ?  " 


"  O  fools ! "  I  cried,  "  0  fools,  a  thou 
sand-fold 

Tormented  with  your  folly,  seeking  good 

Where  Good  is  not,  nor  Evil! — words 
that  hold 

Your  natures  captive,  making  ye  the 
food 

And  spoil  of  them  that  dare,  with  vision 
bold, 

See  Nothingness  !  —  slaves  of  transmit 
ted  fear 

Of  Power  imagined,  never  understood, 

The  Demon  rules  you  still  that  set  you 
here ! " 


The  curse  I  would  have  broken  bound 
me  still. 

As  flowery  chains  aforetime,  fetters  now 

Of  tyrant  Art  subdued  my  wandering 
will, 

And  made  its  youthful,  glad,  spontane 
ous  vow 

^.n  iron  law,  whence  there  was  no  es 
cape. 

No  rest,  though  hopeless,  would  my 
brain  allow, 

But  drew  the  pictures  of  its  haunting 
ill, 

And  gave  its  reckless  fancies  hue  and 
shape. 


So,   after  many  days,  the.  cobwebbed 

door 
Gave  sullen  entrance  :  naught  was  there 

displaced ; 


And  first  I  turned,  with  pangs  and  shud 
dering  haste, 
My  young  St.  John,  —  I  would  not  see 

it  more. 
Then  snatched  an  empty  canvas  from 

the  floor 

And  drew  a  devil :  therein  did  I  taste 
Fierce  joys  of  liberty,  for  what  I  would 
I  would,  —  Art  was  itself  a  Devilhood ! 


This  guilty  joy,  the  holiest  to  debase,  — • 
To  use  the  cunning,  born  of  pious  toil, 
The  purest  features  of  my  dreams  to 

soil, 
And    drag    in    ribaldry    the    pencil's 

grace,  — 
Grew  by  indulgence.   Forms  and  groups 

unclean 
Or  mocking,  faster  than  my  hand  could 

trace 
Their  vivid,  branding  features,  thrust  a 

screen 
My  restless  woe  and  dead  desire  between. 


Sometimes,  perchance,  a  grim,  sarcastic 

freak 

My  pencil  guided,  and  I  stiffly  drew 
Byzantine  saints,  of  flat,  insipid  cheek 
And  monstrous  eye  ;  or  some  Madonna 

meek, 
With  dwarfish  mouth,  like  those  of  Cim- 

abue ; 

Or  martyr-figures,  less  of  flesh  than  bone, 
Lean  hands,  and  lips  forever   making 

moan,  — 
A  travesty  of  woe,  distorted,  weak. 


Or,  higher  ranging,  touched  the  field 
that  charms 

Monastic  painters,  who,  in  vision  warm 

The  Mystery  grasp,  and  wondrous  fres 
cos  form 

Where  God  the  Father,  with  wide-spread 
ing  arms, 

Hides  on  the  whirlwind  which  His  breath 
has  made, 

Or  sows  His  judgments,  Earth  in  dark 
ness  laid 

Beneath  Him,  —  works  which  only  not 
blaspheme, 

Because  the  faith  that  wrought  then 
was  supreme. 


THE   PICTURE. 


293 


Thus  habit  grew,  imagination  stalked 

In  shameless  hardihood  from  things 
profane 

To  sacred  :  nothing  hindered,  awed,  or 
baulked 

The  appetite  diseased,  and  snch  a  plan 

I  sketched,  as  never  since  the  world  be 
gan— 

So  strange  and  mad  —  engendered  any 
brain. 

Once  entertained,  the  lovely-loathsome 
guest 

Clung  to  my  fancy  and  my  hand  pos 
sessed. 


Not  broad  the  canvas,  but  the  shapes  it 

showed, 
With  utmost  art  defined,  might  almost 

seem 
To  grow  and  spread,  dilating  with  the 

theme. 

Filling  the  space,  a  lurid  ocean  glowed 
In  endless  billows,  tipped  with  foam  of 

fire, 
Shoreless :  but  far  more  dreadful  than 

a  dream 
Of  Hell,  the  shapes  which  in  that  sea 

abode, 
With  sting  and  fang,  and  scaly  coil  and 


spire ! 


XLI. 


One   with    a    lizard's    sinuous   motion 

slipped 

Forth  from  the  dun  recesses  of  the  wave, 
Man-eyed  and  browed,  but  tusked  and 

lipped 
Like    river-horse  :    its    claws    another 

drave 
Within  a  ghastly  head,  whose  dim  eyes 

gave 

Slow  tears  of  blood :  and  with  a  burn 
ing  tongue 
In    brazen    jaws    out-thrust,     another 

stripped 
From  floating  bones  the  flesh  that  round 

them  clung ! 


A.nd  in  the  midst,  suspended  from  above 
»ust  o'er  the  blazing  foam,  in  light  in 
tense, 

A  naked  youth  —  a  form   of  strength 
and  love 


And  beauty,  perfect  as  the  artist's  sense 
Dreams  of  a  god ;  and  every  glorious 

limb 
Burned  in  a  glow  that  made  those  bil 

lows  dim. 
A  weird  and  awful   brilliance,  coming 

whence 
No  eye  might  fathom,  dashed  alone  on 

him  ! 


Let  down  from  Somewhere  by  a  mighty 
chain 

Linked  round  his  middle,  lightly,  gra 
ciously 

He  swung,  and  all  his  body  seemed  to 
be 

Compact  of  molten  metal,  such  a  stain 

Of  angry  scarlet  streamed  and  shot 
around : 

The  face  convulsed,  yet  whether  so  with 
pain 

Or  awful  joy,  no  gazers  might  agree, 

And  damp  the  crispy  gold  his  brows  that 
crowned. 


And,  as  he  swung,  all  hybrid  monsters 
near, 

Dark  dragon-leech,  huge  vermin  human- 
faced, 

Their  green  eyes  turned  on  him  with 
hideous  leer, 

Or  stretched  abhorrent  tentacles,  to  taste 

His  falling  ripeness.  Through  the  pict 
ure  spread 

A  sense  of  tumult,  hinting  to  the  ear 

The  snap  and  crackle  of  those  waters 
red, 

And  hiss,  and  howl,  and  bestial  noises 
dread. 


Unweariedly  I  wrought,  —  each  grim 
detail 

As  patient-perfect,  as  from  Denner'a 
brush, 

Of  hair,  or  mouldy  hide,  or  pliant  mail, 

Or  limbs,  slow-parting,  as  the  grinders 
crush 

Their  quivering  fibres  :  good  the  work 
manship, 

Yet  something  unimagined  seemed  to 
fail,— 

A  crowning  Horror,  in  whose  iron  grip 

The  heart  should  stifle,  bloodless  be  the 
lip. 


294 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN. 


This  to  invent,  with  hot,  unresting  mind 
I  labored  :  early  sat  and  la>>,  possessed 
With  evil  images,  with  wicked  zest 
To  wreak  my  mood,   though   it   might 

curse  my  kind, 

On  Evil's  purest  type,  and  horridest ; 
And  never  young  ambition  heretofore 
In  noble  service  so  itself  outwore. 
What  thus  we  seek,  or  soon  or  late  we 

find. 


One  morn  of  winter,  when  unmelted  frost, 
Beneath  a  low-hung  vault  of  moveless 

cloud, 
Silvered  the  world,  even  while  my  head 

was  bowed 
In    half-despair,  my  brain   the   Horror 

crossed, 

Unheralded  ;  and  never  human  will 
Achieved  such  fearful  triumph  !    Never 

came 
The  form  of  that  which  language  cannot 

name, 
So  armed  the  life  of  souls  to  crush  and 

kill! 


And  this  he  never  unto  men  revealed, 
To  curse  by  mere  existence  !     Knowl 
edge  taints, 
Drawn   from  such   crypts,  the  whitest 

robes  of  saints ; 
Though  faith  be  firm,  and  warrior-virtue 

steeled 

Against  assault,  the  Possible  breaks  in 
Their  borders,  and  the  soul  that  cannot 

yield 

Must  needs  receive  the  images  it  paints, 
And  shudder,  sinless,  in  the  air  of  Sin ! 


My  blood  runs  chill,  remembering  now 

the  laugh 
Wherewith,   enlightened,   I   the   pencil 

seized,  — 

Half  deadly-smitten,  fascinated  half, 
5Tet  sworn  to  do  the   dreadful  thing  I 

pleased  ! 
All  things  upheld  my  mood  with   evil 

guise  : 

The  palette-colors,  to  my  sense  diseased, 
Winked  wickedly,  like  devils'  slimy  eyes, 
And  darkness  closed  me  from  the  droop 
ing  skies ! 


As  when  a  harp-string  in  a  silent  room 
At  midnight  snaps,  with  weird,  melodi 
ous  twang, 

So  suddenly,  through  inner,  outer  gloom 
A  sweet,  sharp  sound,  vibrating  slowly 

rang 
And  sank  to  hummirg  music;  while  a 

stream 

Of  gathering  odor  fcilowed,  as  in  dream 
We  braid  the  bliss  of  music  and  per 
fume,  — 

And  pierced,  I  sat,  with  some  divinest 
pang. 


And,  as  from  sound  and  fragrance  born, 

a  glow 

All  rosy-golden,  fair  as  Alpine  snow 
At  sunset,  grew,  —  mist-like  at  first,  and 

dim, 
But  brightening,  folding  inwards,  fold 

on  fold, 

Until  my  ravished  vision  could  behold 
Complete,  each   line   of  sunny-shining 

limb 
And  sainted  head,  soft-posed  as  I  had 

drawn 
My  boy  —  my  Angelo  —  my  young  St. 

John  ! 


O  beauteous  ghost !  O  sacred  loveli 
ness  ! 

Unworthy  I  to  look  upon  thy  face, 

Unworthy  thy  transfigured  form  to 
trace, 

That  stood,  expectant,  waiting  but  to 
bless 

By  miracle,  where  I  intended  crime  ! 

The  folded  scroll,  the  shadowy  cross  of 
reed 

He  bore,  —  St.  John,  but  not  of  mortal 
seed  : 

So  God  beheld  him,  in  that  early  time  ! 


Dew  came  to  burning  eyes  :  a  heavenly 

rain, 

A  balmy  deluge,  bathed  my  arid  henrt, 
And  washed  that  hateful  fabric  of  the 

brain 

To  rot,  a  ruin,  in  some  Hell  of  Art. 
A  sweet,  unquestioning,  obedient  mood 
Made  swift  revulsion  from  the  broken 

strain 


THE  PICTURE. 


295 


Of  my  revolt;  and  still  the  Phantom 

wooed, 
As  bright,  and  wonderful,  and  mute,  it 

stood. 


5Tet  I,  through  all  dissolving,  trembling 
deeps 

Of  consciousness,  his  angel-errand  knew. 

The  guilty  picture  fell,  and  forth  I 
drew 

My  dim  St.  John  from  out  the  dusty 
heaps, 

Aud  cleansed  it  first,  and  kissed  in  rev 
erence 

The  shadowy  lips, — fresh  colors  took, 
and  true, 

And  painted,  while  on  each  awakened 
sense 

i'he  awful  beauty  of  the  Phantom  grew. 


All   hoarded   craft,   all    purposes    and 

powers 
Together  worked  :  the  scattered  gleams 

of  thought 
As  through  a  glass  my  heart  together 

brought 
To  light  my  hand :  the  chariots  of  the 

Hours 
For  me  were  stayed  :  I  knew  not  Earth 

nor  Time, 

But    painted  nimbly  in  a  trance   sub 
lime, 
And  tint   by  tint  my  charmed   pencil 

caught, 
And  line  by  line,  the  loveliness  it  sought, 


Mine  ayes  were  purged  from  film  :  I  saw 
a^d  fixed 

The  subtle  secrets,  not  with  old  de 
spair 

But  with  undoubting  faith  my  colors 
mixed, 

And  with  unfaltering  hand  the  breeze- 
blown  hair, 

The  dark,  unfathomed  eyes,  the  lips  of 
youth, 

The  dainty,  fleeting  grace  that  stands 
betwixt 

The  babe  and  child,  in  members  pure 
and  bare. 

Portrayed,  with  joy  that  owned  my 
pencil's  truth. 


And  he,  my  heavenly  model !   how  he 

shone, 
Unwearied,   silent,  —  drawn,  a  golden 

form, 
Against  the   background  of  a  sky  of 

storm, 

On  Ammon's  desert  hills !     The  land 
scape  lone 
Through  all  its  savage  slopes  and  gorges 

smiled, 

Him  to  enframe,  the  God-selected  child, 
And  o'er  the   shadowy  distance  fell  a 

gleam 
That  touched  with  promised  peace  its 

barren  dream. 


At  last,   the  saffron  clearness  of   the 

west, 
From  under  clouds,  shot  forth  elegiac 

ray 
That  sang  the  burial  of  the  wondrous 

day  : 

And  sad,  mysterious  music  in  my  breast, 
As  at   the  coming,  now  the  close  ex 
pressed. 
Ah,  God  !     I  dared  not  watch  him  float 

away, 
But,  seized  and  shaken  by  the  fading 

spell, 
And  covering  up  my  face,  exhausted 

fell. 


There,  when  my  beating  heart  no  longer 

shook 
The   sense  that  listened,  though  that 

music  died, 

A  solemn  Presence  lingered  at  my  side  ; 
And  drop  by  drop,  as  forms  an  infant 

brook 

Within   a  woodland  hollow,  soft,  un 
heard, 
And  out  of  nothing  braids  its  slender 

tide, 
The  sense  of  speech  the  living  silence 

stirred 
And  wordless  sound  became  melodious 

word ! 


"  O  weak  of  will  ! "    (so  spake  what 

seemed  a  voice) 
"  And  slave  of  sense,  that,  hovering  in 

extremes, 


296 


THE  PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN. 


Dost    oversoar,    and    undermine    thy 

dreams, 
Behold  the  lowest,  highest !    Make  thy 

choice,  — 

Lord  of  the  vile  or  servant  of  the  pure  : 
Be  free,  range  all  that  is,  if  better  seems 
Freedom  to  smite  thyself,  than  to  en 
dure 

The  pain  that  worketh  thine  immortal 
cure ! 


"  Lo  !    never   any   living    brain    knew 

peace, 
That  saw  not,  rooted  in  the  scheme  of 

things, 

Assailing  and  protecting  Evil!     Cease 
To  beat  this  steadfast  law  with  bleeding 

wings, 

For  know,  that  never  any  living  brain, 
Which   rested  not   within    its   ordered 

plane, 
Restruug  the  harp  of  life  with  sweeter 

strings, 
Or  made  new  melodies,  except  of  pain  ! 


"Where  wast  thou,  when  the  world's 
foundations  first 

Were  laid  ?  Didst  thou  the  azure  tent 
unfold  ? 

Or  bid  the  young  May-morning's  car  of 
gold 

Herald  the  seasons  ?  Wouldst  thou  see 
reversed 

The  sacred  order?  Why,  if  life  be 
cursed, 

Add  to  its  curses  thy  rebellion  bold? 

Or  has  thy  finer  wisdom  only  yearned 

For  thankless  gifts  and  recompense  un 
earned  ? 


"  Come,  thou  hast  questioned  God  :  I 
question  thee. 

And  truly  thou  art  smitten,  —  yet  re 
press 

Thine  old  impatience  :  calm  the  eyes 
that  see 

How  blows  give  strength,  and  sharpest 
sorrows  bless. 

Free  art  thou :  is  thy  liberty  so  fair 

To  hide  .he  ghost  of  vanished  happiness, 

&.nd  sieep'st  thou  sweeter  under  skies, 
so  bare 

These  thunder-strokes  were  welcome  to 
its  air  ? 


"  Why   is  thy  life  so  sorely   smitten  i 

Wait, 
And  thou  shalt  learn  !    Dead  stones  thy 

teachers  were : 

Through  years  of  toil  thy  hand  did  min 
ister 
To  joyous  Art :  thou  wast  content  with 

Fate. 
Take  now  thy  ruined   passion,  fix   its 

date, 
Peruse  its  growth,   and,  if  thou  canst, 

replan 
The   blended  facts  of  Life   that  made 

thee  man  ;  — 
Could  aught  be  spared,  or  changed  fo> 

other  state  ? 


"Not  less  thy  breathing  bliss  than  yon 
der  hind 

Thou  cnviest,  but  more  :  therein  it  lies, 

That  each  experience  brings  a  twin  sur 
prise, 

As  mirrored  in  the  glad,  creative  mind, 

And  in  the  beating  heart.  Behold !  he 
bows 

To  adverse  circumstance,  to  change  and 
death  ; 

But  thou  wouldst  place  thy  fortune  his 
beneath, 

Shaming  the  double  glory  on  thy  brows ! 


"  His  pangs  outworn,  perchance   some 

feeling  lives 
For  those  of  others  •  thine   the  lordly 

power 
Transmuting  all  thai  loss   or  suffering 

gives 
To  Beauty  !     Even  thy  most  despairing 

hour 
Some  darker  grace  informs,  and  like  a 

bee 
Thine  Art  sits  hoarding  in  thy  Passion's 

flower  : 
So  vast  thy  need,  no  phase  thine  eye  can 

see 
Of  Earth  or  Life,  that  not  enrichet  l.hee  1 


"  Such  is  the  Artist,  —  drawing  precious 

use 
From  every  fate,  and  so  by  laws  divine 


THE   PICTURE. 


297 


Encompassed,   that   in   glad   obedience 

shine 
His  works  the  fairer :   his  the  flag  of 

truce 
Between  the  warring  worlds  of  soul  and 

sense : 

By  neither  mastered,  holding  both  apart, 
Or  blending  in  a  newer  excellence, 
He  weds  the  haughty  brain  and  yearn 
ing  heart. 


"  Beneath  tempestuous,  shifting  move 
ment  laid, 

The    base  of    steadfast   Order    he    be 
holds, 

And  from  the  central  vortex,  unafraid, 
Marks  how  all  action  evermore  unfolds 
Forth  from  a  point  of  absolute  repose, 
Which  hints  of  God ;  and  how,  in  gleams 

betrayed, 
The    Perfect     even      in     imperfection 

shows,  — 

And  Earth  a  bud,  but  breathing  of  the 
rose  !  " 


Even  as  the  last  stroke  of  a  Sabbath 

bell, 

Heard  in  the  Sabbath  silence  of  a  dell, 
Sounds  on  and  on,  with  fainter,  thinner 

note, 

Distincter  ever,  till  its  dying  swell 
Draws    after  it    the   listener's  ear,  to 

float 

Farther  and  farther  into  skies  remote, — 
So,   when  what   seemed    a  voice    had 

ceased,  the  strain 
Drew  after  it  the  waiting,  listening  brain. 


And,  following  far,  my  senses  on   the 

track 

Slid  into  darkness.     Dead  to  life,  I  lay 
Plunged  in  oblivious  slumber,  still  and 

black, 
All  through  the  night  and  deep  into  the 

day  : 
Yet  was  it  sleep,  not  trance,  —  restoring 

Sleep, 
That  from  the  restless  soul  its  house  of 

clay 
Protects  ;  and  when  I  woke,  her  dew  so 

deep 
Had  drenched,  the  wondrous  Past  was 

washed  away. 


But  there,  before  me,  its  recorded  gift 

Flashed  from  the  easel,  so  divinely  bright 

It  shamed  the  morning :  then,  returning 
swift, 

The  wave  of  Memory  rolled,  and  pure 
delight 

Filled  mine  awakening  spirit,  and  I 
wept 

With  contrite  heart,  redeemed,  enfran 
chised  quite : 

My  sick  revolt  was  healed,  — the  Demoa 
slept, 

And  God  was  good,  and  Earth  her  prom 
ise  kept. 


I  wandered  forth  ;  and  lo !  the  halcyon 

world 

Of  sleeping  wave,  and  velvet-folded  hill, 
And  stainless  air  and  sunshine,  lay  so 

still  ! 
No   mote  of  vapor  on  the  mountains 

curled  ; 

But  lucid,  gem-like,  blissful,  as  if  sin 
Or  more  than  gentlest  grief  had  never 

been, 
Each  lovely  thing,  of  tint  that  shone  im- 

pearled, 
As  dwelt  some  dim  beatitude  therein  1 


There,  as  I  stood,  the  contadini  came 

With  anxious,  kindly  faces,  seeking  me  ; 

And  caught  my  hands,  and  called  me 
by  my  name, 

As  one  from  danger  snatched  might 
welcomed  be. 

Such  had  they  feared,  their  gentle  greet 
ing  told, — 

Seeing  the  cottage  shut,  the  chimney 
free 

Of  that  blue  household  breath,  whose 
rings,  unrolled, 

The  sign  of  home,  the  life  of  landscape, 
hold. 


So    God's    benignant    hand    directing 

wrought, 
And  Man  and  Nature  took  me  back  to 

life. 
My  cry  was  hushed  :  the  forms  of  child 

and  wife 
Smiled  from  a  solemn,  moonlit  land  ol 

thought, 


298 


THE   PICTURE   OF  ST.  JOHN. 


A  realm  of  peaceful  sadness.     Sad,  yet 

strong, 
My  soul  stood  up,  threw  off  its  robes  of 

strife, 
And  quired  anew  the  world-old  human 

song,  — 
Accepting     patience     and     forgetting 

wrong  ! 


Erelong,  my  living  joy  in  Art  returned, 
But  reverently  felt,  and  purified 
By  recognition  of  the  bounty  spurned, 
And  meek  acceptance  in  the  place  of 

pride. 
Yet  nevermore  should  brush  of  mine  be 

drawn 

O'er  the  unfinished  picture  of  St.  John : 
What  from  the  lovely  miracle  I  learned, 
The  lines  of  colder  toil  should  never 

hide. 


Though  incomplete,  it  gave  the  prophecy 

Of  far-off  power,  whereto  my  patient 
mind 

Must  set  its  purpose,  — saying  unto  me : 

"  Make  sure  the  gift,  the  fleeting  fort 
une  bind,  — 

What  once  a  moment  was,  may  ever 
be!" 

And  when,  in  time,  this  hope  securer 
grew, 

Unto  the  picture,  whence  my  truth  I 
drew, 

A  sacred  dedication  I  assigned. 


Pandolfo  dead,  the  body  of  my  child 
Upon  his  mother's  lonely  breast  I  laid, 
A  late  return  ;  and  o'er  their  ashes  made 
A  chapel,  in  the  green  Bohemian  wild, 
For  weary  toil,  pure  thought,  and  silent 

prayer,  — 

A  simple  shrine,  of  all  adornment  bare, 
Save  o'er  the  altar,  where,  completed 

now, 
St.  John  looks  down,  with  Heaven  upon 

his  brow ! 


The  Past  accepts  no  sacrifice  :  its  gates 
Alike  atonement  and  revenge  out-bar. 
We  take  its  color,  ye*  our  spirits  are 
Thrust  forward  by  a  power  which  ante 
dates 


Their  own  :  the  hand  of  Art  outreaches 

Fate's, 
And  lifts  the  bright,  unrisen,  refracted 

star 

Above  our  dark  horizon,  showing  thus 
A  future  to  the  faith  that  fades  in  us. 


Not  with  that  vanity  of  shallow  minds 

Which  apes  the  speech,  and  shames  the 
noble  truth 

Of  them  whose  pride  is  knowledge, — 
nor  of  Youth 

The  dazzling,  dear  mirage,  that  never 
finds 

Itself  o'ertaken,  —  but  with  trust  in 
fame, 

As  knowing  fame,  and  owning  now  the 
pure 

And  humble  will  which  makes  achieve 
ment  sure, 

I,  Egon,  here  the  Artist's  title  claim  ! 


The  forms  of  Earth,  the  masks  of  Life, 
I  see, 

Yet  see  wherein  they  fail :  with  eager 
eyes 

I  hunt  the  wandering  gleams  of  har 
mony, 

The  rarer  apparitions  which  surprise 

With  hints  of  Beauty,  fixing  these  alone 

In  wedded  grace  of  form  and  tint  and 
tone, 

That  so  the  thing,  transfigured,  shall 
arise 

Beyond  itself,  and  truly  live  in  me. 


And  I  shall  paint,  discerning  where  the 
line 

Wavers  between  the  Human  and  Di- 
•  vine, — 

Nor  to  the  Real  in  servile  bondage 
bound, 

Nor  scorning  it  :  nor  with  supernal 
themes 

Feeding  the  moods  of  o'er-aspiring 
dreams, 

(For  mortal  triumph  is  a  god  un 
crowned,)  — 

But  by  Proportion  ruled,  and  by  Re 
pose, 

And  by  the  Soul  supreme  whence  they 
arose. 


THE   PICTUIiE. 


299 


LXXXII. 

Not  clamoring  for  over-human  bliss, 
Yet  now  no  more  unhappy,  —  not  elate 
As  one  exalted  o'er  the  level  state 
Of  these  ungifted  lives,  yet  strong  in 

this, 
That  I  the  sharpest  stab  and  sweetest 

kiss 
Have  tasted,  suffered,  —  I  can  stand  and 

wait, 

Serene  in  knowledge,  in  obedience  free, 
The  only  master  of  my  destiny ! 


And  thus  as  in  a  clear,  revealing  noon 

I  live.  So  comes,  sometimes,  a  mount 
ain  day : 

A  vague,  uncertain,  misty  morn,  and 
soon 

Sharp-smiting  sun,  and  winds'  and  light 
ning's  play,  — 

A  drear  confusion,  by  the  final  crash 

Dispersed,  and  ere  meridian  blown 
away ; 

And  all  the  peaks  shine  bare,  the  waters 
flash, 

And  Earth  lies  open  to  the  golden  ray  ! 


Lonely,  perchance,  but  as  these  dark- 
browed  hills 

Are  lonely,  belted  round  with  broader 
spheres 

Of  bluer  world,  my  life  its  peace  fulfils 

In  coise  of  soul :  the  long,  laborious 
years 


Await  me  :  closed  my  holy  task,  I  go 
To  reaccept,  beyond  the  Alpine  snow, 
The  gage  of  glorious  battle  with  my 

peers, — 
Not  each  of  each,  but  of  false  art,  the 

foe. 


Once  more,  0  lovely,  piteous,  shaping 
Past, 

I  kiss  thy  lips  :  now  let  thy  face  be  hid, 

And  this  green  turf  above  thy  coffin- 
lid 

Be  turned  to  violets !     The  forests  cast 

Their  shadowy  arms  across  the  quiet 
vale, 

And  all  sweet  sounds  the  coming  rest 
foretell, 

And  earth  takes  glory  as  the  sky  grows 
pale, 

So  fond  and  beautiful  the  Day's  fare 
well ! 


Farewell",  then,  thou  embosomed  isle  of 

peace 

In  restless  waters !    Let  the  years  in 
crease 
With  unexpected  blessing :  thou  shalt 

lie 

As  in  her  crystal  shell  the  maiden  lay, 
Watched  o'er  by  weeping  dwarfs,  —  too 

fair  to  die, 
Yet  charmed  from  life  :  and  there  may 

come  a  day 
Which  crowns  Desire  with  gift,  and  Art 

with  truth, 
And  Love  with  bliss,  and  Life  with  wiser 

youth  1 


LABS: 
A  PASTORAL  OF  NORWAY. 


TO 

JOHN  GKEENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

THROUGH  many  years  my  heart  goes  back, 

Through  checkered  years  of  loss  and  gain, 
To  that  fair  landmark  on  its  track, 
When  first,  beside  the  Merrimack, 
Upon  thy  cottage  roof  I  heard  the  autumn  rain. 

A  hand  that  welcomed  and  that  cheered 

To  one  unknown  didst  thou  extend  ; 
Thou  gavest  hope  to  Song  that  feared  ; 
But  now,  by  Time  and  Faith  endeared, 
I  claim  the  sacred  right  to  call  the  Poet,  Friend  ! 

However  Life  the  stream  may  stain, 

From  thy  pure  fountain  drank  my  youth 
The  simple  creed,  the  faith  humane 
In  Good,  that  never  can  be  slain, 
The  prayer  for  inward  Light,  the  search  for  outward  Truth  1 

Like  thee,  I  see  at  last  prevail 

The  sleepless  soul  that  looks  above ; 
I  hear,  far  off,  the  hymns  that  hail 
The  Victor,  clad  in  heavenly  mail, 
Whose  only  weapons  are  the  eyes  and  voice  of  Love  ! 

Take,  then,  these  olive  leaves  from  me, 

To  mingle  with  thy  brighter  bays  ! 
Some  balm  of  peace  and  purity, 
In  them,  may  faintly  breathe  of  thce ; 
And  take  the  grateful  love,  wherein  I  hide  thy  prals*  1 


LAES: 

A  PASTORAL  OF  NORWAY. 

BOOK  I. 

ON  curtained  eyes,  and  bosoms  warm  with  rest, 

On  slackened  fingers  and  unburdened  feet, 

On  limbs  securer  slumber  held  from  toil, 

While  nimble  spirits  of  the  busy  blood 

Renewed  their  suppleness,  yet  filled  the  trance 

With  something  happy  which  was  less  than  dream, 

The  sun  of  Sabbath  rose.     Two  hours,  afar, 

Behind  the  wintry  peaks  of  Justedal, 

Unmarked,  he  climbed  ;  then,  pausing  on  the  crest 

Of  Fille  Fell,  he  gathered  up  his  beams 

Dissolved  in  warmer  blue,  and  showered  them  down 

Between  the  mountains,  through  the  falling  vale, 

On  Ulvik's  cottages  and  orchard  trees. 

And  one  by  one  the  chimneys  breathed  ;  the  sail 

That  loitered  lone  along  the  misty  fiord 

Flashed  like  a  star,  and  filled  with  fresher  wind ; 

The  pasturing  steers,  dispersed  on  grassy  slopes, 

Raised  heads  of  wonder  over  hedge  and  wall 

To  call,  unanswered,  the  belated  cows ; 

And  ears  that  would  not  hear,  or  heard  in  dreamt, 

The  lark's  alarum  over  idle  fields, 

And  lids,  still  sweetly  shut,  that  else  unclosed 

At  touch  of  daybreak,  yielded  to  the  day. 

Then,  last  of  all,  among  the  maidens,  met 

To  dip  fresh  faces  in  the  chilly  fount, 

And  smoothen  braids  of  sleep-entangled  hair, 

Came  Brita,  glossy  as  a  mating  bird. 

No  need  had  she  to  stoop  and  wash  awake 

Her  drowsy  senses  :  air  and  water  kissed 

A  face  as  breathing  as  their  own, 

In  joy  of  life  and  conscious  loveliness. 

If  still  her  mirror's  picture  stayed  with  her, 

A  memory,  whispering  how  the  downcast  lid 

Shaded  the  flushing  fairness  of  her  cheek, 

And  hinting  how  a  straying  lock  relieved 

The  rigid  fashion  of  her  hair,  or  how 

The  curve  of  slightly  parted  lips  became 

Half-sad,  half-smiling,  either  meaning  much 

Or  naught,  as  wilful  humor  might  decide,— 


304  LARS. 

Yet  thence  was  born  the  grace  she  could  not  lose : 
Her  beauty,  guarded,  kept  her  beautiful. 

"  Wilt  soon  be  going,  Brita?  "  Ragnil  asked  ; 

"  And  which  the  way,  —  by  fiord  or  over  fell  ?  " 

"  Why,  both  !  "  another  laughed ;  "  or  else  the  rocks 
Will  split  and  slide  beneath  the  feet  of  Lars, 
Or  Per  will  meet  the  Kruken  !  "     Brita  held 
One  dark-brown  braid  between  her  teeth,  and  wove 
The  silken  twine  and  tassels  through  its  fringe, 
Before  she  spake  ;  but  first  she  seemed  to  sign  : 

"  I  will  not  choose  ;  you  shall  not  spoil  my  day  ! 
All  paths  are  free  that  lead  across  the  fell ; 
All  wakes  are  free  to  keels  upon  the  fiord, 
And  even  so  my  will :  come  Lars  or  Per, 
Come  Erik,  Anders,  Harald,  Olaf,  Nils, 
Come  soeter-boys,  or  sailors  from  the  sea, 
No  lass  is  bound  to  slight  a  decent  lad, 
Or  walk  behind  him  when  the  way  is  wide." 

"  No  way  is  wide  enough  for  three,  I  've  heard," 
Said  Ragnil,  "  save  there  be  two  men  that  prop 
A  third,  when  market 's  over." 

"  Go  your  ways ! " 

Then  Brita  cried  :  "  if  two  or  twelve  should  come, 
I  call  them  not,  nor  do  I  bid  them  go  : 
A  friendly  word  is  no  betrothal  ring." 

Then  tossed  she  back  her  braids,  and  with  them  tossed 

Her  wilful  head.     "  Why,  take  you  both,  or  all !  " 

She  said,  and  left  them,  adding,  "  if  you  can  !  " 

With  silent  lips,  nor  cared  what  prudent  fears, 

Old-fashioned  wisdom,  dropped  in  parrot-words, 

Chattered  behind  her  as  she  climbed  the  lane. 

Along  her  path  the  unconverted  bees 

Set  toil  to  music,  and  the  elder-flowers 

Bent  o'er  the  gate  a  snowy  entrance-arch, 

Where,  highest  on  the  slope,  her  cottage  sat. 

Her  bed  of  pinks  there  yielded  to  the  sun 

Its  clove  and  cinnamon  odors  ;  sheltered  there 

Beneath  the  eaves,  a  rose-tree  nursed  its  buds, 

And  through  the  door,  across  the  dusk  within, 

She  saw  her  grandam  set  the  morning  broth 

And  cut  a  sweeter  loaf.     All  breathed  of  peace, 

Of  old,  indulgent  love,  and  simple  needs, 

Yet  Brita  sighed,  —  then  blushed  because  she  sighed. 

"  Dear  Lord !  "  the  ancient  dame  began,  "  *t  is  just 
The  day,  the  sun,  the  breeze,  the  smell  of  flowers, 
As  fifty  years  ago,  in  Hallingdal, 
When  I,  like  thee,  picked  out  my  smartest  things, 
And  put  them  on,  half  guessing  what  would  hap, 
And  found  my  luck  before  I  took  them  off. 
See  !  thou  shall  wear  the  brooch,  my  mother's  then, 
And  thine  when  I  am  gone.     Some  luck,  who  knows  f 
May  still  be  shining  in  the  fair  red  stone." 
So,  from  a  box  that  breathed  of  musky  herbs, 
She  took  the  boss  of  roughly  fashioned  gold, 


LABS.  305 

With  garnets  studded  :  took,  but  gave  not  yet. 

Some  pleasure  in  the  smooth,  cool  touch  of  gold, 

Or  wine-red  sparkles,  flickering  o'er  the  stones, 

Or  dream  of  other  fingers,  other  lips 

That  kissed  them  for  the  bed  they  rocked  upon 

That  happy  summer  eve  in  Hallingdal, 

Gave  her  slow  heart  its  girlhood's  pulse  again, 

Her  cheek  one  last  leaf  of  its  virgin  rose. 

Oh,  foolishness  of  age !     She  dared  not  say 
What  then  she  felt :  Go,  child,  enjoy  the  bliss 
Of  innocent  woman,  ripe  for  need  of  man, 
And  needing  him  no  less !     Some  natural  art 
Will  guide  thy  guileless  fancies,  some  pure  voice 
Will  whisper  truth,  and  lead  thee  to  thy  fate ! 
But,  ruled  by  ancient  habit,  counselled  thus : 
"Be  on  thy  guard,  my  Brita !  men  are  light 
Of  tongue,  and  unto  faces  such  as  thine 
Mean  not  the  half  they  say :  the  girl  is  prized 
Who  understands  their  ways,  and  holds  them  off 
Till  he  shall  come,  who,  facing  her,  as  she 
And  death  were  one,  pleads  for  his  life  with  her : 
When  such  an  one  thou  meetest,  thou  wilt  know." 

"  Nay,  grandam !  "  Brita  said !  "  I  will  not  hear 

A  voice  so  dreadful-earnest  :  I  am  young, 

And  I  can  give  and  take,  not  meaning  much, 

Nor  over-anxious  to  seem  death  to  men: 

I  like  them  all,  and  they  are  good  to  me. 

I  '11  wear  thy  brooch,  and  may  it  bring  me  luck, 

Not  such  as  thine  was,  as  I  guess  it  was, 

But,  in  the  kirk,  short  sermon,  cheerful  hymn, 

Good  neighbors  on  the  way,  and  for  the  dance 

A  light-foot  partner ! "     With  a  rippling  laugh 

That  brushed  the  surface  of  her  heart,  and  hid 

Whatever  doubt  its  quiet  had  betrayed, 

She  kissed  the  withered  cheek,  and  on  her  breast 

Pinned  the  rough  golden  boss  with  wine-red  atones. 
"Come,  Brita,  come  !  "  rang  o'er  the  elder-flowers  : 
"I  come  !  "  she  answered,  threw  her  fleeting  face 

Upon  the  little  mirror,  took  her  bunch 

Of  feathered  pinks,  and  joined  the  lively  group 

Of  Sundayed  lads  and  lasses  in  the  lane. 

They  set  themselves  to  climb  the  stubborn  fell 
By  stony  stairs  that  left  the  fields  below, 
And  ceased,  far  up,  against  the  nearer  blue. 
But  lightly  sprang  the  maids ;  and  where  the  slides 
Of  ice  ground  smooth  the  slanting  planes  of  rock, 
Strong  arms  drew  up  and  firm  feet  steadied  theirs. 
Here  lent  the  juniper  a  prickly  hand, 
And  there  they  grasped  the  heather's  frowsy  hair, 
While  jest  and  banter  made  the  giddy  verge 
Secure  as  orchard-turf ;  and  none  but  showed 
The  falcon's  eye  that  guides  the  hunter's  foot, 
Till  o'er  their  flushed  and  breathless  faces  struck 
The  colder  ether ;  on  the  crest  they  stood, 
And  sheltered  vale  and  ever-winding  fiord 
20 


306  LARS. 

Sank  into  gulfs  of  shadow,  while  afar 

To  eastward  many  a  gleaming  tooth  of  snow 

Cut  the  full  round  of  sky. 

"  Why,  look  you,  now  '* 

Cried  one  :  "  the  fiord  is  bare  as  threshing-floor 
When  winter  's  over  :  what 's  become  of  Per  ?  " 
"  And  what  of  Lars  ?  "  asked  Ragnil,  with  a  glance 
At  Brita's  careless  face  ;  "  can  he  have  climbed 
The  Evil  Pass,  and  crossed  the  thundering  foss, 
His  nearest  way  ?  "     As  clear  as  blast  of  horn 
There  came  a  cry,  and  on  the  comb  beyond 
They  saw  the  sparkle  of  a  scarlet  vest. 
Then,  like  the  echo  of  a  blast  of  horn, 
A  moment  later,  fainter  and  subdued, 
A  second  cry  ;  and  far  to  left  appeared 
A  form  that  climbed  and  leaped,  and  nearer  strove. 
And  Harald,  Anders  Ericssen,  and  Nils 
Set  their  three  voices  to  accordant  pitch 
And  shouted  one  wild  call  athwart  the  blue, 
Until  it  seemed  to  quiver :  as  they  ceased 
The  maids  began,  and,  moving  onward,  gave 
Strong  music :  all  the  barren  summits  rang. 

So  from  the  shouts  and  girlish  voices  grew 
The  wayward  chorus  of  a  soeter-song, 
Such  as  around  the  base  of  Skagtolstiud 
The  chant  of  summer-jotun  seems,  when  all 
The  herds  are  resting  and  the  herdsmen  meet ; 
And  while  it  swept  with  swelling,  sinking  waves 
The  crags  and  ledges,  Lars  had  joined  the  band, 
And  from  the  left  came  Per  ;  and  Brita  walked 
Between  them  where  the  path  was  broad,  but  when 
It  narrowed  to  such  track  as  tread  the  sheep 
Round  slanting  shoulder  and  o'er  rocky  spur 
To  reach  the  rare,  sweet  herbage,  one  went  close 
Before  her,  one  behind,  and  unto  both 
With  equal  cheer  and  equal  kindliness 
Her  speech  was  given  :  so  both  were  glad  of  heart. 

A  herdsman,  woodman,  hunter,  Lars  was  strong, 
Yet  silent  from  his  life  upon  the  hills. 
Beneath  dark  lashes  gleamed  his  darker  eyes 
Like  mountain-tarns  that  take  their  changeless  hue 
From  shadows  of  the  pine  :  in  all  his  ways 
He  showed  that  quiet  of  the  upper  world 
A  breath  can  turn  to  tempest,  and  the  force 
Of  rooted  firs  that  slowly  split  the  stone. 
But  Per  was  gay  with  laughter  of  the  seas 
Which  were  his  home  :  the  billow  breaking  blue 
On  the  Norwegian  skerries  flashed  again 
Within  his  sunbright  eyes ;  and  in  his  tongue, 
Set  to  the  louder,  merrier  kev  it  learned 
In  hum  of  rigging,  roar  of  wind  and  tide, 
The  rhythm  of  ocean  and  its  wilful  change 
Allured  all  hearts  as  ocean  lures  the  land. 
Now  which,  this  daybreak  with  his  yellow  locks, 
Or  yonder  twilight,  calm,  mysterious,  filled 
With  promise  of  its  stars,  shall  turn  the  mind 


LARS.  307 

Of  the  light  maiden  who  is  neither  fain 

To  win  nor  lose,  since,  were  the  other  not, 

Then  each  were  welcome  ?  —  how  should  maid  decide  ? 

For  that  the  passion  of  the  twain  was  marked, 

And  haply  envied,  and  a  watch  was  set, 

She  would  be  strong :  and,  knowing,  seem  as  though 

She  nothing  knew,  until  occasion  came 

To  bid  her  choose,  or  teach  her  how  to  choose. 

On  each  and  all  the  soberness  of  morn 

Yet  lay,  the  weight  of  hard  reality 

That  even  clogs  the  callow  wings  of  love ; 

And  now  descending,  where  the  broader  vale 

Showed  farm  on  farm,  and  groves  of  birch  and  oak, 

And  fields  that  shifted  gloss  like  shimmering  silk, 

The  kirk-bells  called  them  through  the  mellow  air, 

Slow-swinging,  till,  as  from  a  censer's  cup 

The  smoke  diffused  makes  all  the  minister  sweet, 

The  peace  they  chimed  pervaded  earth  and  sky. 

As  under  foliage  of  the   lower  land 

The  pathway  led,  more  harmless  fell  the  jest, 

The  laugh  less  frequent :  then  the  maidens  drew 

Apart,  set  smooth  their  braids,  their  kirtles  shook, 

And  grave,  decorous  as  a  troop  of  nuns, 

Entered  the  little  town.     Ragnil  alone 

And  Anders  Ericssen  together  walked, 

For  twice  already  had  their  banns  been  called. 

Lars  shot  one  glance  at  Brita,  as  to  say : 

Were  thou  and  I  thus  promised,  side  by  side  ! " 

Then  looked  away ;  but  Per,  who  kept  as  near 

As  decent  custom  let,  all  softly  sang : 

Forget  me  thou,  I  shall  remember  still !  " 

That  she  might  hear  him,  and  so  not  forget. 

Thus  onward  to  the  gray  old  kirk  they  moved. 

The  bells  had  ceased  to  chime :  the  hush  within 

With  holy  shuddering  from  the  organ-bass 

Was  filled,  and  when  it  died  the  prayer  arose. 

Then  came  another  stillness,  as  the  Lord 

Were  near,  or  bent  to  listen  from  afar, 

And  last  the  text ;  but  Brita  found  it  strange. 

Thus  read  the  pastor  :  "  Set  me  as  a  seal 

Upon  thy  heart,  yea,  set  me  as  a  seal 

Upon  thine  arm ;  for  love  is  strong  as  death, 

And  jealousy  is  cruel  as  the  grave." 

She  felt  the  garnets  burn  upon  her  breast, 

As  if  all  fervor  of  the  olden  love 

Still  heated  them,  and  fire  of  jealousy, 

And  to  herself  she  thought :  "  Has  any  face 

Looked  on  me  with  a  love  as  strong  as  death  ? 

But  I  am  Life,  and  how  am  I  to  know  ? " 

Then,  straightway  weary  of  the  puzzle,  she 

Began  to  wander  with  her  dancing  thoughts 

Out  o'er  the  fell,  and  up  and  down  the  slopes 

Of  sunny  grass,  while  ever  and  anon 

The  preacher's  solemn  voice  struck  through  her  Jream, 

Its  sound  a  menace  and  its  sense  unknown. 

Then  she  was  sad,  and  vexed  that  she  was  sad 


308  LARS. 

And  vexed  with  them  who  only  could  have  caused 
Her  sadness :  "  Grandam's  luck,  forsooth  !  "  she  though* ; 
*  If  one  were  luck,  why,  two  by  rights  were  more, 
But  two  a  plague,  a  lesser  plague  were  one, 
And  not  a  fortune  !  "     So,  till  service  ceased, 
And  all  arose  when  benediction  came, 
She  mused  with  pettish  thrust  of  under  lip, 
Nor  met  the  yearning  eyes  of  Lars  and  Per. 

The  day's  grave  duty  done,  forth  issued  all, 
Foregathering  with  the  Vossevangen  youth, 
The  girls  of  Graven  and  the  boys  of  Vik, 
Where  under  elms  before  the  guest-house  front 
Stood  tables  brown  with  age :  already  bore 
The  host  his  double-handed  bunch  of  cans 
Fresh-filled  and  foaming  ;  and  the  cry  of  Skoal! 
Mixed  with  the  clashing  kiss  of  glassy  lips. 
But  when  in. gown  of  black  the  pastor  came, 
All  rose,  respectful,  waiting  for  his  words. 
A  pace  in  front  stood  Anders  Ericssen, 
Undignified  in  bridegroom  dignity, 
Because  too  conscious  :  Kagnil  blushed  with  shame, 
And  all  the  maidens  envied  her  the  shame, 
When  reverend  fingers  tapped  her  cheek,  and  he. 
That  good  man,  said  :  "  How  fares  my  bonny  bride  ? 
She  must  not  be  the  last  this  summer  ;  look, 
My  merry  lads,  what  harvest  waits  for  you  J " 
And  on  the  maidens  turned  his  twinkling  eyes, 
That  beamed  a  blessing  with  the  playful  words. 

Then  Lars  slipped  nearer  Brita,  where  she  stood 
Withdrawn  a  little,  underneath  the  trees. 

"You  heard  the  pastor,"  said  he  ;  "would  you  next 
Put  on  the  crown  ?  not  you  the  harvest,  nay, 
The  reaper,  rather  ;  and  the  grain  is  ripe." 

"A  field,"  she  answered,  "  may  be  ripe  enough 
When  half  the  heads  are  empty,  and  the  stalks 
Are  choked  with  cockle.     I  've  no  mind  to  reap. 
Indeed,  I  know  not  what  you  mean  :  the  speech 
The  pastor  uses  suits  not  you  nor  me." 
She  meant  reproof,  yet  made  reproof  so  sweet 
By  feigned  impatience,  which  betrayed  itself, 
That  Lars  bent  lower,  murmured  with  quick  breaths 

u  Oh,  take  my  meaning,  Brita  !     Give  me  one,  — 
But  one  small  word  to  say  that  you  are  kind, 
But  one  kind  word  to  tell  me  you  are  free, 
And  I  not  wholly  hateful ! "     "  Lars !  "  she  cried, 
Her  frank,  sweet  sympathy  aroused,  "  not  so  ! 
As  friendly-kind  as  I  can  be,  I  am, 
But  free  of  you.  and  all ;  and  that's  enough  ! 
You  men  would  walk  across  the  growing  grain, 
And  trample  it  because  it  is  not  ripe 
Before  the  harvest."     Thereupon  she  smiled, 
Sent  him  one  dewy  glance  that  should  have  been 
Defiant,  but  a  promise  seemed  ;  then  turned, 
And  hastening,  almost  brushed  the  breast  of  Per. 
He  caught  her  by  the  hands,  that  Viking's  son, 
Whose  fathers  wore  the  eagle-helm,  and  stood 


LARS.  309 

With  Frithiof  at  the  court  of  Angantyr, 
Or  followed  fair-haired  Harald  to  the  East, 

Though  fishing  now  but  herring,  cod,  and  bass, 

Not  men  and  merchant-galleys  :  he  was  red 

With  mead,  no  less  than  sun  and  briny  air : 

He  caught  her  by  the  hands,  and  said,  as  one 

Who  gives  command  and  means  to  be  obeyed: 
*  You  '11  go  to  Ulvik,  Brita,  by  the  fiord ! 

Bjorn  brings  my  boat ;  the  wind  is  off  the  sea, 

But  light  as  from  a  Bergen  lady's  fan  : 

Say,  then,  you  '11  go !  " 

The  will  within  his  words 

Struck  Brita  harshly.     For  a  moment  she 

Pondered  refusal,  then,  with  brightening  face 

Turned  suddenly,  and  cried  to  all  the  rest : 
"  How  fine  of  Per  !  we  need  not  climb  the  fell : 

He  '11  bear  us  all  to  Ulvik  by  the  fiord  ; 

Bjorn  brings  his  boat ;  the  wind  is  off  the  sea ! " 

And  all  the  rest,  with  roaring  skoal  to  Per, 

Struck  hands  upon  the  offer  ;  only  he 

For  plan  so  friendly  showed  a  face  too  grim. 

He  set  his  teeth  and  muttered  :  "  Caught  this  time, 

But  she  shall  pay  it !  "  till  his  discontent 

Passed,  like  a  sudden  squall  that  tears  the  sea, 

Yet  leaves  a  sun  to  smile  the  billows  down. 

His  jovial  nature,  bred  to  change,  was  swayed 

By  the  swift  consequence  of  Brita's  whim, 

The  grasp  of  hand,  the  clap  of  shoulder,  clink 

Of  brimming  glass,  and  whispers  overheard 

Of  "  Luck  to  Per,  and  Bjorn,  and  all  the  boys 

That  reap,  but  sow  not,  on  the  rolling  fields  ! " 

And  Brita,  too,  no  sooner  punished  him 

Than  she  relented,  and  would  fain  appease  ; 

Whence,  fluttering  to  and  fro,  she  kept  the  plan 

Alive,  yet  made  its  kindness  wholly  Per's  : 

Only,  when  earnestly  to  Lars  she  said  : 
u  You  '11  go  with  us  ?  "  he  answered  sullenly  : 
"  I  will  not  go  :  my  way  is  o'er  the  fell." 

He  did  not  quit  them  till  they  reached  the  strand, 

And  on  the  stern-deck  and  the  prow  was  piled 

The  bright,  warm  freight ;  then  chose  a  dangerous  path, 

A  rocky  ladder  slanting  up  the  crags, 

And  far  aloft  upon  a  foreland  took 

His  seat,  with  chin  upon  his  clenching  hands, 

To  watch  and  muse,  in  love  and  hate,  alone. 

But  they  slid  off  upon  a  wind  that  filled 

The  sail,  yet  scarcely  heeled  the  boat  a-lee  : 

They  seemed  to  rest  above  a  hanging  sky 

'Twixt  shores  that  went  and  shores  that  slowly  came 

In  silence,  and  the  larger  shadows  fell 

From  heaven-high  walls,  a  darker  clearness  in 

The  air  above,  the  firmament  below, 

Crossed  by  the  sparkling  creases  of  the  sea. 

Bjorn  at  the  helm  and  Per  to  watch  the  wind, 

They  scarcely  sailed,  but  soared  as  eagle  soars 

O'er  Gonsta's  lonely  peak  with  moveless  plumes, 

That,  level-set,  cut  the  blue  planes  of  air  ; 


310  LARS. 

And  out  of  stillness  rose  that  sunset  hymn 
Of  Sicily,  the  0  sanctissima ! 
That  swells  and  fluctuates  like  a  sleepy  wave. 
»  Thus  they  swam  on  to  where  the  fiord  is  curved 

Around  the  cape,  where  through  a  southward  cleit 

Some  wicked  sprite  sends  down  his  elfish  flaws. 

So  now  it  chanced  :  the  vessel  sprang,  and  leaned 

Before  the  sudden  strain  ;  but  Per  and  Bjcirn 

Held  the  hard  bit  upon  their  flying  steed, 

And  laughing,  sang  :  "  Out  on  the  billows  blue 

You  needs  must  dance,  and  on  the  billows  blue 

You  sleep,  a  babe,  rocked  by  the  billows  blue !  " 

As  suddenly  the  gust  was  over :  then 

Found  Per  a  seat  by  Brita.     "  Did  you  fear  ? " 

He  said  ;  and  she  :  "  Who  fears  that  sails  with  Per?  " 

"  Nay  then,"  he  whispered,  "  never  fear  me  more, 
As  twice  to-day  :  why  give  me  all  this  freight, 
When  so  much  less  were  so  much  more  to  me  ?  " 

"  Since  when  were  maidens  free  as  fishermen  ? 
Not  since  the  days  of  Brynhild,  I  believe  "  ; 
She  answered,  sharply  :  "  I  was  fain  to  sail, 
And  place  for  me  meant  place  for  more  beside." 

"  Not  in  my  heart,"  he  said  ;  "  it  holds  and  keeps 
Thee  only  ;  thou  canst  not  escape  my  love  ;  " 
And  tried  to  take  her  hand  :  she  bending  o'er 
The  low,  black  bulwarks,  saw  a  crimson  spark 
Drop  on  the  surface  of  the  pale-green  wave, 
And  sink,  surrounded  by  a  golden  gleam. 

"  Oh,  grandam's  brooch  !  "  she  cried,  and  started  up, 
Sat  down  again,  and  hid  her  face,  and  wept. 
Some  there  lamented  as  the  loss  were  theirs, 
Some  shook  their  heads  in  ominous  dismay, 
But  all  agreed  that,  save  a  fish  should  bring 
The  jewel  in  its  maw  (and  tales  declared 
The  thing  once  happened),  none  would  see  it  more. 
Said  Guda  Halstensdatter  :  "  I  should  fear 
An  evil,  had  I  lost  it."     Thorkil  cried  : 

"  Be  silent.  Guda  !     Loss  is  grief  enough 
For  Brita :  would  you  frighten  her  as  well  ? 
There  's  many  think  that  jewels  go  and  come, 
Having  some  life  or  virtue  of  their  own 
That  drives  them  from  us  or  that  brings  them  back. 
'T  was  so  with  my  great-graudam's  wedding-ring." 

"Now,  how  was  that  ?  "  all  asked  ;  and  Thorkil  spake: 
"  Why,  not  a  year  had  she  been  wedded,  when 
The  ring  was  gone  :  how,  where,  a  mystery. 
It  was  a  bitter  grief,  but  nothing  happed 
Save  losses,  ups  and  downs,  that  come  to  all  : 
Both  took  their  lot  in  patience  and  in  hope, 
And  worked  the  harder  when  the  luck  was  least. 
So  from  the  moorland  and  the  stony  brake 
They  won  fresh  fields  ;  and  now,  when  came  around 
The  thirteenth  harvest,  and  the  grain  was  ripe 
On  that  new  land,  my  grandsire,  then  a  boy, 
One  morn  came  leaping,  shouting,  from  the  field. 
High  in  his  hand  he  held  a  stalk  of  wheat, 
And  round  the  ripened  ear,  between  the  beards, 


LARS.  3  LI 

Hung-,  like  a  miracle,  the  wedding-ring ! 

And  father  heard  great-grandam  say  it  shone 

So  wonderful,  she  dropped  upon  her  knees ; 

She  thought  God's  finger  touched  it,  giving  back. 

Who  knows  what  fish  may  pounce  on  Brita's  brooci 

Before  it  reach  the  bottom  of  the  fiord, 

And  then,  what  fisher  net  the  fish  ?  "     Some  there 

Began  to  smile  at  this,  and  Per's  blue  eyea 

Danced  with  a  cheerful  light,  as,  in  the  core 

Of  Ulvik  entered,  fell  his  sagging  sail. 

No  more  spake  Brita ;  homeward  up  the  hill 

She  walked  alone,  sobbing  with  grief  and  dread. 

The  world  goes  round  :  the  sun  sets  on  despair, 

The  morrow  makes  it  hope.     Each  little  life 

Thinks  the  great  axle  of  the  universe 

Turns  on  its  fate,  and  finds  impertinence 

In  joy  or  grief  conflicting  with  its  own. 

Yet  fate  is  woven  from  unnoted  threads ; 

Each  life  is  centred  in  the  life  of  all, 

And  from  the  meanest  root  some  fibre  runs 

Which  chance  or  destiny  may  intertwine 

With  those  that  feed  a  force  or  guiding  thought, 

To  rule  the  world  :  so  goes  the  world  around. 

And  Brita's  loss,  that  made  all  things  seem  dark, 

•Was  soon  outgrieved  :  came  Anders'  wedding-day 

And  liagnil's,  and  the  overshining  joy 

Of  these  two  hearts  from  others  drove  the  shade. 

Forth  from  her  home  the  ruddy  bride  advanced, 

Not  fair,  but  made  so  by  her  bridal  bliss, 

The  tall  crown  on  her  brow,  and  in  her  hand 

The  bursting  nosegay  :  Anders,  washed  and  sleeked, 

With  ribbons  on  his  hat,  from  head  to  foot 

Conscious  of  all  he  wore,  each  word  he  spake, 

And  every  action  for  the  day  prescribed, 

Stuck  to  her  side.     It  was  a  trying  time ; 

But  when  the  strange  truth  was  declared  at  last 

That  they  were  man  and  wife,  so  greeted  with 

The  cries  of  flute  and  fiddle,  crack  of  guns, 

And  tossing  of  the  blossom-brightened  hats, 

They  breathed  more  freely ;  and  the  guests  were  glad 

That  this  was  over,  since  the  festival 

Might  now  begin,  and  mirth  be  lord  of  all. 

In  Ragnil's  father,  Halfdan's  home,  the  casks 

Of  mead  were  tapped,  the  Dantzig  brandy  served 

In  small  old  glasses,  and  the  platters  broad, 

Heaped  high  with  salmon,  che«se,  and  caviar, 

Tempted  and  soothed  before  the  heavier  meal. 

No  guest  in  duty  failed  ;  and  Per  began  — 

The  liquor's  sting,  the  day's  infection  warm 

Upon  his  blood  —  to  fix  his  sweetheart's  word, 

Before  some  wind  should  blow  it  otherwhere. 
"Your  hand,  my  Brita,"  stretching  his, —  " your  hand 

For  all  the  dances :  see,  my  heels  are  light  ! 

I  have  a  right  to  ask  you  for  amends, 

But  ask  it  as  a  kindness."  "  Nay,"  she  said, 
"  You  have  no  right ;  but  I  will  dance  one  dance 


812  LARS. 

With  you,  as  any  other."    "  Will  you  then  *" 
He  cried,  and  caught  her  sharply  by  the  wrist : 
"I '11  not  be  '  any  other,'  do  you  hear  ? 
I  '11  be  the  one,  the  only  one,  whose  foot 
Keeps  time  \\  ith  yours,  my  heart  the  tune  thereto ! " 
Then  shouting  comrades  whirled  him  from  her  side, 
And  Ragnil  culled  the  maids,  to  show  her  stores 
Of  fine-spun  linen,  lavendered  and  cool 
In  nutwood  chests,  her  bed  and  canopy 
Painted  with  pictures  of  the  King  and  Queen, 
And  texts  from  Scripture,  o'er  the  pillows  curled 
Where  she  and  Anders  should  that  night  repose. 
They  shut  the  door  to  keep  the  lads  without, 
Then  shyly  stole  away  ;  and  Brita  found 
Alone,  amoug  the  garden  bushes,  Lars. 

His  eyes  enlarged  and  brightened  as  she  came  ; 
He  said,  in  tones  whose  heartful  sweetness  made 
Her  pulses  thrill :  "  I  will  not  bind  you  yet : 
Dance  only  first  with  me  that  soeter-dance 
You  learned  on  Graafell :  Nils  will  play  the  air. 
Then  take  your  freedom,  favor  whom  you  will. 
I  shall  not  doubt  you,  now  and  evermore." 
"  But,  Lars  "  —  she  said,  then  paused  ;  he  would  not  wait 
The  mirthful  guests  drew  near.     "  I  '11  keep  you,  then," 
He  whispered  ;  "  till  I  needs  must  let  you  go. 
This  much  will  warm  me  on  the  windy  fells, 
Make  sunshine  of  the  mists,  melt  frost  in  dew, 
And  paint  the  rocks  with  roses."     Could  she  turn 
From  that  brave  face,  those  calm,  confiding  eyes  1 
Could  she,  in  others'  sight,  reject  the  hand 
Now  leading  to  the  board  ?     If  so,  too  late 
Decision  came,  for  she  had  followed  him, 
And  sat  beside  him  when  the  horns  of  mead 
Made  their  slow  pilgrimage  from  mouth  to  mouth, 
And  while  the  stacks  of  bread  sank  low,  the  haunch 
Of  stall-fed  ox  diminished  to  the  bone, 
Till  multeberries,  Bergen  gingerbread, 
With  wine  of  Spain,  made  daintier  end  of  all. 
Then,  like  a  congress  of  the  blackbirds,  held 
In  ancient  tree-tops  on  October  eves, 
The  tables  rang  and  clattered  ;  but,  erelong, 
Brisk  hands  had  stripped  them  bare,  and,  turning  dowa 
The  leaves,  made  high-backed  settles  by  the  wall. 

Through  all  the  bustle  and  the  din  were  heard 

The  fiddle-strings  of  Nils,  as  one  by  one 

They  chirped  and  squeaked  in  dolorous  complaint, 

Until  the  bent  ear  and  the  testing  bow 

Found  them  accordant :  then  a  flourish  came 

That  scampered  up  and  down  the  scale,  and  lapsed 

In  one  long  note  that  hovered  like  a  bird, 

Uncertain  where  to  light ;  but  so  not  long  : 

It  darted  soon,  a  lark  above  the  fells, 

And  spun  in  eddying  measures.     Here  a  pair, 

And  there  another,  took  the  vacant  floor, 

Then  Lars  and  Brita,  sweeping  in  the  dance 

That  whirled  and  paused,  as  if  n  mountain  gust 


LARS.  313 

Blew  them  together,  tossed,  and  tore  apart. 

And  ever,  when  the  wild  refrain  came  round, 

Lars  flung  himself  and  sidewards  turned  in  air, 

Yet  missed  no  beat  of  music  when  he  fell. 
"  By  holy  Olaf !  "  gray -haired  Halfdan  cried  : 
"  There 's  not  a  trick  we  knew  in  good  old  days, 

But  he  has  caught  it :  so  I  danced  myself." 

Upon  the  sweeping  circles  entered  Per, 

Held  back,  at  first,  and  partially  controlled 

By  them  who  saw  the  current  of  his  wrath, 

And  whitherward  it  set ;  but  now,  when  slacked 

The  fiery  pulses  of  the  dance,  he  broke 

Through  all,  and  rudely  thrust  himself  on  Lars. 
"  Yonr  place  belongs  to  me,"  he  hoarsely  cried,  — 
"  Your  place  and  partner ! "  "  Brita  's  free  to  choose," 

Said  Lars,  "  and  may  be  bidden ;  but  this  floor 

Is  not  your  deck,  nor  are  you  captain  mine  : 

I  thiuk  your  throat  has  made  your  head  forget." 

Lars  spake  the  truth  that  most  exasperates  : 

His  words  were  oil  on  flame,  and  Per  resolved, 

So  swayed  by  reckless  anger,  to  defy- 
Then,  once,  and  wholly.     "Deck  or  not,"  said  he, 
"  Yon  know  what  right  I  mean  :  you  stand  where  I 

Allow  you  not :  I  warn  you  off  the  field  !  " 

Lars  turned  to  Brita :  "  Does  he  speak  for  you  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  but  what  with  shame  and  fear 

Said  nothing :  "  We  have  danced  our  soeter-dance," 

He  further  spake,  "  and  now  I  go  :  when  next 

We  meet  at  feast,  I  claim  another  such." 
*  Aye,  claim  it,  claim  !  "  Per  shouted ;  "  but  you  '11  first 

Try  knives  with  me,  for  blood  shall  run  between 

Your  words  and  will :  where  you  go,  I  shall  be." 
"  So  be  it :  bid  your  mother  bring  your  shroud  !  " 

Lars  answered  ;  and  he  left  the  marriage  house. 

The  folk  of  Ulvik  knew,  from  many  a  tale 

Of  feud  and  fight,  from  still  transmitted  hates 

And  old  Berserker  ma^ess  in  their  blood, 

What  issue  hung  :  but  whoso  came  between 

Marked  that  the  mediation  dwelt  with  her 

Who  stood  between  :  if  she  would  choose,  why,  then 

The  lover  foiled  forsooth  must  leave  in  peace 

The  lover  favored, — further  strife  were  vain. 

But  Lars  was  far  upon  the  windy  heights, 

And  Per  beyond  the  skerries  on  the  sea, 

And  Ragnil  bustling  busy  as  a  wife, 

That  might  have  helped  ;  while  those  to  Brita  came, 

More  meddlesome  than  kind,  who  hurt  each  nerve 

They  touched  for  healing.     What  could  she,  but  cry 

In  tears  and  anger  :  "  Shall  I  seek  them  out, 

Bestow  myself  on  one,  take  pride  for  love, 

And  forfeit  thus  all  later  pride  in  me  ? 

Rather  refuse  them  both,  and  on  myself 

Turn  hate  of  both :  their  knives,  i'  faith  !  were  dull 

Beside  your  cutting  tongues  !  "     She  vowed,  indeed, 

In  moonlit  midnights,  when  she  could  not  sleep, 

And  either  window  framed  a  rival  face, 

That  seemed  to  wait,  with  set,  reproachful  eyes, 


814  LARS. 

To  smile  on  neither,  hold  apart  and  off 
Their  fatal  kindness.     She  repel,  that  drew? 
As  if  an  open  rose  could  will  away 
Its  hue  and  scent,  a  lily  arm  its  stem 
With  thorns,  a  daisy  turn  against  the  sun  ! 

The  fields  were  reaped  ;  the  longer  shadows  thrown 

From  high  Hardanger  and  the  eastern  range 

Began  to  chill  the  vales  :  it  was  the  time 

When  on  the  meadow  by  the  lonely  lake 

Of  Graven,  from  the  regions  round  about 

The  young  men  met  to  hold  their  wrestling-match, 

As  since  the  days  of  Olaf  they  had  done. 

There,  too,  the  maids  came  and  the  older  folk, 

Delighting  in  the  grip  of  strength  and  skill, 

The  strain  of  sinew,  stubbornness  of  joint, 

And  urge  of  meeting  muscles.     All  the  place 

Was  thronged,  and  loud  the  cheers  and  laughter  rang 

When  some  old  champion  from  a  rival  vale 

Bent  before  fresher  arms,  and  from  his  base 

Wrenched  ere  he  knew,  fell  heavily  to  earth. 

Until  the  sun  across  the  fir-trees  laid 

His  lines  of  level  gold,  they  watched  the  bouts  ; 

Then  strayed  by  twos  and'threes  toward  the  sound 

Of  wassail  in  the  houses  and  the  booths. 

And  Brita  with  her  Ulvik  gossips  went. 

Once  only,  when  a  Lasrdal  giant  brought 

Sore  grief  upon  the  men  of  Vik,  she  saw 

Or  seemed  to  see,  beyond  the  stormy  ring, 

The  shape  of  Lars  ;  but,  scarce  disquieted 

If  it  were  he,  or  if  the  twain  were  there, 

(Since  blood,  she  thought,  must  surely  cool  in  time,) 

She  followed  to  the  house  upon  the  knoll 

Where  ever  came  and  went,  like  bees  about 

Their  hive's  low  doorway,  groups  of  merry  folk. 

A  mellow  dusk  already  filled  the  room  ; 

The  chairs  were  pushed  a*de,  and  on  the  stove, 

As  on  a  throne  of  painted  clay,  sat  Nils. 

Behold !  Lars  waited  there  ;  and  as  she  reached 

The  inner  circle  round  the  dancing-floor 

He  moved  to  meet  her,  and  began  to  say 

"  Thanks  for  the  last "  —  when  from  the  other  side 
Strode  Per. 

The  two  before  her,  face  to  face 
Stared  at  each  other  :  Brita  looked  at  them. 
All  three  were  pale ;  and  she,  with  faintest  voice, 
Remembering  counsel  of  the  tongues  unkind, 
Could  only  breathe  :  "  I  know  not  how  to  choose." 

"  No  need  !  "  said  Lars :  "  I  choose  for  you,"  said  Per. 
Then  both  drew  off  and  threw  aside  their  coats, 
Their  broidered  waistcoats,  and  the  silken  scarves 
About  their  necks ;  but  Per  growled  "  All !  "  and  mad* 
His  body  bare  to  where  the  leathern  belt 
Is  clasped  between  the  breast-bone  and  the  hip. 
Lars  did  the  same  ;  then,  setting  tight  the  belts, 
Both  turned  a  little  :  the  low  daylight  clad 
Their  forms  with  awful  fairness,  beauty  now 


LARS.  315 

Of  life,  so  warm  and  ripe  and  glorious,  yet 

So  near  the  beauty  terrible  of  Death. 

All  saw  the  mutual  sign,  and  understood ; 

And  two  stepped  forth,  two  men  with  grizzled  hair 

And  earnest  faces,  grasped  the  hooks  of  steel 

In  either's  belt,  and  drew  them  breast  to  breast, 

And  in  the  belts  made  fast  each  other's  hooks. 

An  utter  stillues  on  the  people  fell 

While  this  was  done  :  each  face  was  stern  and  strange, 

And  Brita,  powerless  to  turn  her  eyes, 

Heard  herself  cry,  and  started :  "  Per,  0  Per ! " 

When  those  two  backward  stepped,  all  saw  the  flash 
Of  knives,  the  lift  of  arms,  the  instant  clench 
Of  hands  that  held  and  hands  that  strove  to  strike  : 
All  heard  the  sound  of  quick  and  hard-drawn  breath, 
And  naught  beside  ;  but  sudden  red  appeared, 
Splashed  on  the  white  of  shoulders  and  of  arms. 
Then,  thighs  entwined,  and  all  the  body's  force 
Called  to  the  mixed  resistance  and  assault, 
They  reeled  and  swayed,  let  go  the  guarding  clutch, 
And  struck  out  madly.     Per  drew  back,  and  aimed 
A  deadly  blow,  but  Lars  embraced  him  close, 
Reached  o'er  his  shoulder  and  from  underneath 
Thrust  upward,  while  upon  his  ribs  the  knife, 
Glancing,  transfixed  the  arm.     A  gasp  was  heard : 
The  struggling  limbs  relaxed;  and  both,  still  bound 
Together,  fell  upon  the  bloody  floor. 

Some  forward  sprang,  and  loosed,  and  lifted  them 

A  little  ;  but  the  head  of  Per  hung  back, 

With  lips  apart  and  dim  blue  eyes  unshut, 

And  all  the  passion  and  the  pain  were  gone 

Forever.     "  Dead  !  "  a  voice  exclaimed  ;  then  she, 

Like  one  who  stands  in  darkness,  till  a  blaze 

Of  blinding  lightning  paints  the  whole  broad  world, 

Saw,  burst  her  stony  trance,  and  with  a  cry 

Of  love  and  grief  and  horror,  threw  herself 

Upon  his  breast,  and  kissed  his  passive  mouth, 

And  loud  lamented :  "  Oh,  too  late  I  know 

I  love  thee  best,  my  Per,  my  sweetheart  Per  ! 

Thy  will  was  strong,  thy  ways  were  masterful ; 

I  did  not  guess  that  love  might  so  command  ! 

Thou  wert  my  ruler :  I  resisted  thee, 

But  blindly  :  Oh,  come  back !  — I  will  obey." 

Within  the  breast  of  Lars  the  heart  beat  on, 

Yet  faintly,  as  a  wheel  more  slowly  turns 

When  summer  drouth  has  made  the  streamlet  thin. 

They  staunched  the  gushing  life  ;  they  raised  him  upj 

And  sense  came  back  and  cleared  his  clouded  eye 

At  Brita's  voice.  He  tried  to  stretch  his  hand  : 
"  Where  art  thou,  Brita "?  It  is  time  to  choose  : 

Take  what  is  left  of  him  or  me !  "     He  paused  : 

She  did  not  answer.  Stronger  came  his  voice  : 
"  I  think  that  I  shall  live  :  forget  all  this  ! 

'T  was  not  my  doing,  shall  not  be  again, 

If  only  thou  wilt  love  me  as  I  love." 


316  LARS. 

"  I  love  thce  ?  "  Brita  cried  ;  "  who  murderest  him 
I  loved  indeed !     Why  should  I  wish  thee  life, 
Except  to  show  thee  I  can  hate  instead  ?  " 
A  groan  so  deep,  so  desperate  and  sad 
Came  from  his  throat,  that  men  might  envy  him 
Who  lay  so  bilent;  then  they  bore  him  forth, 
While  others  smoothed  the  comely  limbs  of  Per. 
His  mother,  next,  unrolled  the  decent  shroud 
She  brought  with  her,  as  ancient  custom  bade, 
To  do  him  honor ;  for  man's  death  he  died, 
Not  shameful  straw-death  of  the  sick  and  old. 


BOOK  II. 

LAKS  lived,  because  the  life  within  his  frame 

Refused  to  leave  it ;  but  his  heart  was  dead, 

He  thought,  for  nothing  moved  him  any  more. 

He  spake  not  Brita's  name,  and  every  path 

Where  he  had  scattered  fancies  of  the  maid 

Like  seeds  of  flowers,  but  whence,  instead,  had  grown 

Malignant  briers,  to  clog  and  tear  his  feet, 

Was  hated  now :  so,  all  that  once  seemed  life, 

So  bright  with  power  and  purpose,  rich  in  chance, 

And  dropping  rest  from  every  cloud  of  toil, 

Became  a  weariness  of  empty  days. 

Thus,  not  to  'scape  the  blood-revenge  for  Per 
Which  Thorsten  vowed,  his  brother  :  not  to  shun 
The  tongues  and  eyes  of  censure  or  reproach, 
Or  spoken  pity,  angering  more  than  these ; 
But  since  each  rock  upon  the  lonely  fell 
Kept  echoes  of  her  voice,  each  cleft  of  blue 
Where  valleys  wandered  downward  to  the  wave 
Held  shadows  of  her  form,  each  meadow-sod 
Her  footprints,  —  all  the  land  so  filled  with  her, 
Once  hope,  delight,  but  desolation  now, — 
Forth  must  he  go,  beyond  his  father's  hearth, 
Beyond  the  vales,  beyond  the  teeth  of  snow, 
The  shores  and  skerries,  till  the  world  become 
Too  wide  for  knowledge  of  his  evil  fate, 
Too  strange  for  memory  of  his  ruined  love  ! 

He  recked  not  where  ;  but  into  passive  moods 

Some  spirit  drops  a  leaven,  to  point  anew 

Men's  aimless  forces.     Was  it  only  chance 

That  now  recalled  a  long-forgotten  tale  ? 

How  Leif,  his  mother's  grandsire,  crossed  the  seas 

To  those  new  lands  the  great  Gtistavus  claimed: 

How,  in  The  Key  of  old  Calmar,  their  ship, 

A  trooper  he,  with  Printz  the  Governor, 

Sailed  days  and  weeks ;  the  blue  would  never  turn 

To  shallower  green,  and  landsmen  moped  in  dread, 

Till  shores  grew  up  they  scarce  believed  were  such. 

Low-lying,  fresh,  as  if  the  hand  of  God 

Had  lately  h'nislied  them.     But  farther  on 

The  curving  bay  to  one  broad  river  led, 

Where  cabins  nestled  on  the  rising  banks, 


LARS.  317 

With  mighty  woods,  and  mellow  intervales, 

Inviting  corn  and  cattle.     Then  rejoiced 

The  Swedish  farmers,  and  were  set  ashore : 

But  on  the  level  isle  of  Tinicum 

Printz  built  a  fort,  and  there  the  trooper,  Leif, 

Abode  three  years :  and  he  was  fain  to  tell, 

When  wounds  and  age  had  crippled  him,  how  fair 

And  fruitful  was  the  land,  how  full  of  sun 

And  bountiful  in  streams,  —  and  pity  't  was 

The  strong  Norse  blood  could  not  have  stocked  it  all ! 

Lars  knew  not  why  these  stories  should  return 
To  haunt  his  gloomy  brain :  but  it  was  so, 
And  on  the  current  of  his  memory  launched 
His  thought,  and  followed ;  then  neglected  will 
Awoke,  and  on  the  track  of  thought  embarked, 
And  soon  his  life  was  borne  away  from  all 
It  knew,  and  burst  the  adamantine  ring 
Which  bound  its  world  within  the  greater  world. 
As  one  who,  wandering  by  the  water-side, 
Steps  in  an  empty  boat,  and  sits  him  down, 
Not  knowing  that  his  step  has  loosed  the  chain, 
And  drifts  away,  unwitting,  on  the  tide, 
So  he  was  drifted  :  no  farewell  he  spake, 
But  happy  Ulvik  and  the  fiord  and  fell 
Passed  from  his  eyes,  and  underneath  his  feet 
The  world  went  round,  until  he  found  himself, 
Like  one  aroused  from  sleep,  upon  the  hills 
That  roll,  the  heavings  of  the  boundless  blue. 

As  unto  Leif,  his  mother's  grandsire,  so 

To  him  it  seemed  the  blue  would  never  turn 

To  shallower  green,  till  shining  fisher-sails 

Came,  stars  of  land  that  rose  before  the  land ; 

Then  fresher  shores  and  climbing  river-banks, 

And  broken  woods  and  mellow  intervales, 

With  houses,  corn,  and  cattle.     There,  perchance, 

He  dreamed,  the  memory  of  Leif  might  bide 

Upon  the  level  isle  of  Tinicum, 

Or  farms  of  Swedish  settlers  :  if  't  were  so, 

One  stone  was  laid  whereon  to  build  a  home. 

But  when  the  vessel  at  the  city's  wharf 

Dropped  anchor,  and  the  bright  new  land  was  won, 

The  high  red  houses  and  the  sober  throngs 

Were  strange  to  him,  and  strange  the  garb  and  speech. 

Awhile  he  lingered  there  ;  until,  outgrown 

The  tongue's  first  blindness  and  the  stranger's  shame, 

His  helpless  craft  was  turned  again  to  use. 

Then  sought  he  countrymen,  and,  finding  now 
Within  the  Swedish  Church  at  Weccacoe 
No  Norse  but  in  the  features,  else  all  changed, 
He  left  and  wandered  down  the  Delaware 
Unto  the  isle  of  Tinicum  ;  and  there 
Of  all  that  fortress  of  the  valiant  Printz 
Some  yellow  bricks  remained.     The  name  of  Leif 
Who  should  remember  ?     Do  we  call  to  mind, 
Years  afterward,  the  clover-head  we  plucked 


LARS. 

Some  morn  of  June,  and  smellcd,  and  threw  away? 

But  when  we  find  a  life  erased  and  lost 

Beneath  the  multitude's  unsparing  feet, — 

A  life  so  clearly  beating  yet  for  us 

In  blood  and  memory,  —  comes  a  sad  surprise : 

So  Lars  went  onward,  losing  hope  of  good, 

To  where,  upon  her  hill,  fair  Wilmington 

Looks  to  the  river  over  marshy  meads. 

He  saw  the  low  brick  church,  with  stunted  tower, 

The  portal-arches,  ivied  now  and  old, 

And  passed  the  gate  :  lo  !  there,  the  ancient  stones 

Bore  Norland  names  and  dear,  familiar  words ! 

It  seemed  the  dead  a  comfort  spake  :  he  read, 

Thrusting  the  nettles  and  the  vines  aside, 

And  softly  wept :  he  knew  not  why  he  wept, 

But  here  was  something  in  the  strange  new  land 

That  made  a  home,  though  growing  out  of  graves. 

Led  by  a  faith  that  rest  could  not  be  far, 
Beyond  the  town,  where  deeper  vales  bring  down 
The  winding  brooks  from  Pennsylvaniau  hills, 
He  walked  :  the  ordered  farms  were  fair  to  see, 
And  fair  the  peaceful  houses  :  old  repose 
Mellowed  the  lavish  newness  of  the  land, 
And  sober  toil  gave  everywhere  the  right 
To  simple  pleasures.     As  by  each  he  passed, 
A  spirit  whispered  :  "No,  not  there  !  "  and  then 
His  sceptic  heart  said  :  "  Never  anywhere !  " 

The  sun  was  low,  when,  with  the  valley's  bend, 

There  came  a  change.     Two  willow-fountains  flung 

And  showered  their  leafy  streams  before  a  house 

Of  rusty  stone,  with  chimneys  tall  and  white  ; 

A  meadow  stretched  below  ;  and  dappled  cows, 

Full-fed,  were  waiting  for  their  evening  call. 

The  garden  lay  upon  a  sunny  knoll, 

An  orchard  dark  behind  it,  and  the  barn, 

With  wide,  warm  wings,  a  giant  mother-bird, 

Seemed  brooding  o'er  its  empty  summer  nest. 

Then  Lars  upon  the  roadside  bank  sat  down, 

For  here  was  peace  that  almost  seemed  despair, 

So  near  his  eyes,  so  distant  from  his  life 

It  lay  :  and  while  he  mused,  a  woman  came 

Forth  from  the  house,  no  servant-maid  more  plain 

In  her  attire,  yet,  as  she  nearer  drew, 

Her  still,  sweet  face,  and  pure,  untroubled  eyes 

Spake  gentle  blood.     A  browner  dove  she  seemed, 

Without  the  shifting  iris  of  the  neck, 

And  when  she  spake  her  voice  was  like  a  dove's, 

Soft,  even-toned,  and  sinking  in  the  heart. 

Lars  could  not  know  that  loss  and  yearning  made 

His  eyes  so  pleading  ;  he  but  saw  how  hers 

Bent  on  him  as  some  serious  angel's  might 

Upon  a  child,  strayed  in  the  wilderness. 

She  paused,  and  said  :  "Thou  seemest  weary,  friend," 

But  he,  instead  of  answer,  clasped  his  hands. 

The  silent  gesture  wrought  upon  her  mind  : 

She  marked  the  alien  face  ;  then,  with  a  smile 


LARS.  319 

That  meant  and  made  excuse  for  needful  words, 

She  said  :  "  Perhaps  them  dost  not  understand  ?  " 
"I  understand,"  Lars  answered  ;  "you  are  good. 

Indeed,  I  'm  weary  :  not  in  hands  and  feet, 

But  tired  of  idly  owning  them.     I  see 

A  thousand  fields  where  I  could  take  my  bread 

Nor  stint  the  harvest,  and  a  thousand  roofs 

That  shelter  corners  where  my  head  might  rest, 

Nor  steal  another's  pillow  !  " 

As  to  seek 

The  meaning  of  his  words,  she  mused  a  space. 

In  that  still  land  of  homes,  how  should  she  guess 

What  fancies  haunt  a  homeless  heart  1     Yet  his 

Was  surely  need  :  so,  presently,  she  spake : 
"  Work  only  waits,  I  've  thought,  for  willing  hands ; 

A  meal  and  shelter  for  the  night,  we  give 

To  all  that  ask  ;  what  more  is  possible 

Rests  with  my  father."    Lars  arose  and  went 

Beside  her,  where  the  cows  came  loitering  on 

With  udders  swelled,  and  meadow-scented  breath, 

Through  opened  bars  and  up  the  grassy  lane. 
"  Ho,  Star  !  "  and  "  Pink !  "  he  called  them  coaxingly 

In  soft  Norse  words  :  they  stared  as  if  they  knew. 
"  See,  lady  !  "  then  he  cried:  "  the  honest  things 

Like  him  that  likes  them,  over  all  the' world." 

But  "  Nay,"  she  said,  "  not  '  lady  ' !  —  call  me  Ruth : 

My  father's  name  is  Ezra  Mendenhall, 

And  hither  comes  he :  I  will  speak  for  thee." 

So  Lars  was  sheltered,  and  when  evening  fell, 
And  all,  around  the  clean  and  peaceful  board, 
Kept  the  brief  silence  which  is  fittest  prayer 
Before  the  bread  is  broken,  he  was  filled 
With  something  calm  which  was  akin  to  peace, 
With  something  restless,  which  was  almost  hope. 
The  white-haired  man  with  placid  forehead  sat 
And  faced  him,  grave  as  any  Bergen  judjje, 
Yet  kindly  ;  he  the  stranger's  claim  allowed, 
And  ample  space  for  hunger,  ere  he  spake  : 
"  What,  then,  might  be  thy  name  ?  "     "  My  name  is  Lars, 
The  son  of  Thorsten,  in  the  Norway  land. 
My  father  said  the  blood  of  heathen  kings 
Runs  in  our  veins,  but  we  are  Christian  men, 
Who  work  the  more  because  of  idle  sires, 
And  speak  the  truth,  and  try  to  live  good  lives." 

Lars  ceased,  as  if  a  blow  had  closed  his  mouth, 
But  Ezra  said  :  "  The  name  sounds  heathenish, 
Indeed,  yet  hardly  royal ;  blood  is  naught  to  us, 
Yea,  less  than  naught,  or  I,  whose  fathers  served 
The  third  man  Edward,  and  his  kindly  wife, 
Philippa,  loved  the  vanities  of  courts 
And  cast  away  the  birthright  of  their  souls, 
Were  now,  perchance,  a  worldly  popinjay, 
The  Lord  forgetting  and  provoking  Him 
Me  to  forget.     But  this  is  needless  talk  : 
Thy  hands  declare  that  thou  art  bred  to  work  ; 
Thy  face,  aiethinks,  is  truthful ;  if  thy  life 


820  LARS. 

Be  good,  I  know  not.    I  can  trust  no  more 

Than  knowledge  justifies,  and  charity 

Bids  us  assume  until  the  knowledge  comes." 

"  No  more  I  ask,"  Lars  answered  ;  "  simple  ways 
To  me  are  home-ways  :  I  can  learn  to  serve, 
Because,  when  others  served  me,  I  was  just." 

"  Our  ways  are  strange  to  thee,"  said  Ezra  ;  "  thine 
Unsuitable,  if  here  too  long  retained. 
The  just  in  spirit  find  in  outward  things 
A  voice  and  testimony,  which  may  not 
Be  lightly  changed  :  what  sayest  thou  to  this  ?  " 

"  To  ctiange  in  mine  ?     Why,  truly,  't  were  no  change 
To  do  thy  bidding,  yet  to  call  thee  friend  ; 
To  use  the  speech  of  brethren,  as  at  home  ; 
And,  feigning  not  the  faith  that  still  may  part, 
To  bide  in  charity  till  knowledge  comes,  — 
So  much,  without  a  promise,  I  should  give." 

"  Thou  speakest  fairly,"  Ezra  said  ;  "  to  me 
Is  need  of  labor  less  than  faithful  will, 
But  this  includes  the  other  :  if  thou  stand 
The  easier  test,  the  greater  then  may  come. 
The  man  who  feels  his  duty  makes  his  own 
The  beasts  he  tends  or  uses,  and  the  fields, 
Though  all  may  be  another's."     "  Then,"  said  Ruth, 

*'  My  cows  already  must  belong  to  Lars : 
His  speech  was  strange,  and  yet  they  understood." 

So  Lars  remained.     That  night,  beneath  the  roof, 

His  head  lay  light ;  the  very  wind  that  breathed 

Its  low,  perpetual  wail  among  the  boughs 

Sufficed  to  cheer  him,  and  the  one  dim  star 

That  watched  him  from  the  highest  heaven  of  heave  as 

Made  morning  in  his  heart.     Too  soon  passed  off 

The  exalted  mood,  too  soon  his  rich  content 

Was  tarnished  by  the  daily  round  of  toil, 

And  all  thing's  grown  familiar ;  yet  his  pride, 

That  rose  at  censure  for  each  petty  fault 

Of  ignorance,  supported  while  it  stung. 

And  Ezra  Mendenhall.was  just,  and  Ruth 

Serenely  patient,  sweetly  calm  and  kind : 

So,  month  by  month,  the  even  davs  were  born 

And  died,  the  nights  were  drowned  in  deeper  rest, 

And  fields  and  fences,  streams  and  stately  woods, 

Fashioned  themselves  to  suit  his  newer  life, 

Till  ever  fainter  grew  those  other  forms 

Of  fiord  and  fell,  the  high  Hardanger  range, 

And  Romsdal's  teeth  of  snow.     Yea,  Brita's  eyes 

And  Per's  hot  face  he  learned  to  hold  away, 

Save  when  they  vexed  his  helpless  soul  in  dreams. 

The  land  was  called  Hockessin.     O'er  its  hills, 
High,  wide,  and  fertile,  blew  a  healthy  air : 
There  was  a  homestead  set  wherever  fell 
A  sunward  slope,  and  breathed  its  crystal  vein, 


LARS.  321 


And  up  beyond  the  woods,  at  crossing  roads, 
The  heart  of  all,  the  ancient  meeting-house; 
And  Lars  weut-thither  on  an  autumn  morn. 
Beside  him  went,  it  happened,  Abner  Cloud, 
A  neighbor ;  ri<;id  in  the  sect,  and  rich, 
And  it  was  rumored  that  he  crossed  the  hill 
To  Ezra's  house,  ofteuer  than  neighbor-wise. 
This  knew  not  Lars :  but  Abner's  eye,  he  thought, 
Fell  not  upon  him  as  a  friend's  should  fall, 
And  Abner's  tongue  perplexed  him,  for  its  tone 
Was  harsh  or  sneering  when  his  words  were  fair. 
He  spake  from  every  quarter,  as  a  man 
Who  seeks  a  tender  spot,  or  wound  unhealed, 
And  probes  the  surface  which  he  seems  to  soothe 
Until  some  nerve  betrays  infirmity. 
This,  only,  were  the  two  alone :  if  Ruth 
Came  near,  his  face  grew  mild  as  curded  milk, 
And  unctuous  kindness  overflowed  his  lips 
Precise  and  thin,  as  who  should  godlier  be  ? 
Perhaps  he  wooed,  but  't  was  a  wooing  strange, 
Lars  fancied,  or  his  heart  were  other  stuff 
Than  those  are  made  of  which  can  bless  or  slay. 
It  was  a  silent  meeting.     Here  the  men 
And  there  the  women  sat,  the  elder  folk 
Facing  the  younger  from  their  rising  seats, 
With  faces  grave  beneath  the  stiff,  straight  brim 
Or  dusky  bonnet.     They  the  stillness  breathed 
Like  some  high  air  wherein  their  souls  were  free, 
And  on  their  features,  as  on  those  that  guard 
The  drifted  portals  of  Egyptian  fanes, 
Sat  mystery  :  the  Spirit  they  obeyed 
By  voice  or  silence,  as  the  influence  fell, 
Was  near  them,  or  their  common  seeking  made 
A  spiritual  Presence,  mightier  than  the  grasp 
Of  each,  possessed  in  reverence  by  all. 
But  o'er  the  soul  of  Lars  there  lay  the  shade 
Of  his  own  strangeness :  peace  came  not  to  him. 
Awhile  he  idly  watched  the  flies  that  crawled 
Along  the  hard,  bare  pine,  or  marked,  in  front, 
The  close-cut  hair  and  flaring  lobes  of  ears, 
Until  his  mind  turned  on  itself,  and  made 
A  wizard  twilight,  where  the  shapes  of  life 
Shone  forth  and  faded  :  subtler  sense  awoke, 
But  dream-like  first,  and  then  the  form  of  Per 
Became  a  living  presence  which  abode  ; 
And  all  the  pain  and  trouble  of  the  past 
Threatened  like  something  evil  yet  to  come. 
At  last,  that  phantasm  of  his  memory  sat 
Beside  him,  and  would  not  be  banished  thence 
By  will  or  prayer  :  he  lifted  up  his  face, 
And  met  the  cold  gray  eyes  of  Abner  Cloud. 

The  man,  thenceforward,  seemed  an  enemy, 
And  Ruth,  he  scarce  knew  why,  but  all  her  ways 
So  cheered  and  soothed,  a  power  to  subjugate 
The  devil  in  his  heart.     But  now  the  leaves    • 
Flashed  into  glittering  jewels  ere  they  fell ; 
21 


322  LARS. 


The  pastures  lessened,  and,  when  day  was  done, 
Came  quiet  evenings,  bare  of  tale  and  song, 
Such  as  beneath  Norwegian  rafters  shook 
Tired  lids  awake  ;  and  wearisome  to  Lars, 
Till  Ruth,  who  noted,  fetched  the  useless  books 
Of  school-girl  days,  and  portioned  him  his  task, 
Herself  the  teacher.     Oft  would  Ezra  smile 
To  note  her  careful  and  unyielding  sway. 

:'  Nay,  now,"  he  said  ;  "  I  thought  our  speech  was  plain, 
But  thou  dost  hedge  each  common  phrase  with  thorns, 
Like  something  rare  :  dost  thou  not  make  it  hard  ?  " 

"  A  right  foundation,  father,"  she  replied, 

'  Makes  easy  building  :  thus  it  is  in  life. 
I  teach  thee,  Lars,  no  other  than  the  Lord 
Requires  of  all,  through  discipline  that  makes 
His  goodness  hard  until  it  lives  in  us." 
With  paler  cheeks  Lars  turned  him  to  his  task, 
Thus  innocently  smitten  ;  but  his  mind 
Increased  in  knowledge,  till  the  alien  tongue 
Obeyed  the  summous  of  his  thought.     So  toil 
Brought  freedom,  and  the  winter  passed  away. 

Where  Lars  was  blind,  the  eyes  of  Abner  Cloud 

Saw  more  than  was.     This  school-boy  giant  drew, 

He  fancied,  like  a  rank  and  chance-sown  weed 

Beside  some  wholesome  plant,  the  strength  away 

From  his  desire,  of  old  and  rightful  root. 

'T  was  not  that  Ruth  should  love  the  stranger,  —  no  ! 

But  woman's  interest  is  lightly  caught, 

So  hers  by  Lars,  that  might  have  turned  to  him. 

Had  he  not  worldly  goods,  and  honest  name, 

And  birthright  in  the  meeting  ?   Who  could  weigh 

Unknown  with  these  deserts  ?  — but  gentleness 

Is  blind,  and  goodness  ignorant ;  so  he, 

By  malice  made  sagacious,  learned  to  note 

The  large,  strong  veins  that  filled  and  rose,  although 

The  tongue  was  still,  the  clench  of  powerful  hands, 

The  trouble  hiding  in  the  gloomy  eye, 

And  wrought  on  these  by  cunning  words.     But  most 

He  played  with  forms  of  Scandinavian  faith 

In  that  old  time  before  King  Olaf  came, 

And  made  their  huge,  divine  barbarities, 

Their  strength  and  slaughter,  fields  of  frost  and  blood, 

More  hideous.     "  These  are  fables,  thou  wilt  claim," 

It  was  his  wont  to  say  ;  "  but  such  must  nurse 

A  people  false  and  cruel." 

Then  would  Lars 

Reply  with  heat :  "  Not  so  !  but  honest  folk,  instead, 
Too  frank  to  hide  the  face  of  any  fault, 
And  free  from  all  the  evil  crafts  that  breed 
In  hearts  of  cowards  !  " 

Ruth,  it  rarely  chanced, 

Heard  aught  of  this,  but  when  she  heard,  her  voice 
Came  firm  and  clear  :  "  Indeed,  it  is  not  good 
To  drag  those  times  forth  from  their  harmless  graves. 
Their  ignorance  and  wicked  strength  are  dead, 
And  what  of  good  they  knew  was  not  their  own, 
But  ours  as  well ;  this  is  our  sole  concern, 


LARS.  323 

To  feed  the  life  of  goodness  in  ourselves 
And  all,  that  so  the  world  at  last  escape 
The  darkness  of  our  fathers  far  away." 

As  when  some  malady  within  the  frame 
Is  planted,  slowly  tainting  all  the  blood, 
And  underneath  the  seeming  healthy  skin 
In  secret  grows  till  strong  enough  to  smite 
With  rank  disorder,  so  the  strife  increased ; 
And  Lars  perceived  the  devil  of  his  guilt 
Had  made  a  darkness,  where  he  amlmshed  lay 
And  waited  for  his  time.     Against  him  rose 
The  better  knowledge,  breeding  downy  wings 
Of  prayer,  yet  shaken  by  mistrust  and  hnte 
At  touch  of  Abner's  malice.     Thus  the  hour, 
The  inevitable,  came. 

A  Sabbath  morn 

Of  early  spring  lay  lovely  on  the  land. 
Upon  the  bridge  that  to  the  barn's  broad  floor 
Led  from  the  field,  stood  Lars  :  his  eyes  were  fixed 
Upon  his  knife,  and,  as  he  turned  the  blade 
This  way  and  that,  and  with  it  turned  his  thought, 
While  musing  if  't  were  best  to  cover  up 
This  witness,  or  to  master  what  it  told, 
Close  to  the  haft  he  marked  a  splash  of  rust, 
And  shuddered  as  he  held  it  nearer.     "  Blood, 
And  doubtless  human!  "  spake  a  wiry  voice, 
And  Abner  Cloud  bent  down  his  head  to  look 
A  sound  of  waters  filled  the  ears  of  Lars 
And  all  his  flesh  grew  chill :  he  said  no  word. 
;  I  have  thy  history,  now,"  thought  Abner  Cloud, 
And  in  the  pallid  silence  read  but  fear  ; 
So  thus  aloud  :  "  Thou  art  a  man  of  crime 
The  proper  offspring  of  the  godless  tribes 
Who  drank  from  skulls,  and  gnawed  the  very  bones 
Of  them  they  slew.     This  is  thine  instrument. 
And  thou  art  hungering  for  its  bloody  use. 
Say,  hast  thou  ever  eaten  human  flesh  ?  " 

Then  all  the  landscape,  house,  and  trees,  and  hills, 

Before  the  eyes  of  Lars,  burned  suddenly 

In  crimson  fire  :  the  roaring  of  his  ears 

Became  a  thunder,  and  his  throat  was  brass. 

Yet  one  wild  pang  of  deadly  fear  of  self 

Shot  through  his  heart,  and  with  a  mighty  cry 

Of  mingled  rage,  resistance,  and  appeal, 

He  flung  his  arms  towards  heaven,  and  hurled  afar 

The  fatal  knife.     This  saw  not  Abner  Cloud  : 

But  death  he  saw  within  those  dreadful  eyes, 

And  turned  and  fled.     Behind  him  bounded  Lars, 

The  man  cast  off,  the  wild  beast  only  left, 

The  primal  savage,  who  is  born  anew 

In  every  child.     Not  long  had  been  the  race. 

But  Ezra  Mendenhall,  approaching,  saw 

The  danger,  swiftly  thrust  himself  between, 

And  Lars,  whose  passion-blinded  eyes  beheld 

An  obstacle,  that  only,  struck  rfim  down. 

Then  deadly  hands  he  dashed  at  Abuer's  throat, 


824  LARS. 

Bnt  they  were  grasped :  he  heard  the  crjr  of  Rath, 
Not  what  she  said  :  he  heard  her  voice,  and  stood. 

She  knew  not  what  she  said :  she  only  saw 

The  wide  and  glaring  eyes  suffused  with  blood, 

The  stiff-drawn  lips  that,  parting,  showed  the  teeth, 

And  on  the  temples  every  standing  vein 

That  throbbed,  dumb  voices  of  destroying  wrath. 

The  soul  that  filled  her  told  her  what  to  do : 

She  dropped  his  hands  and  softly  laid  her  own 

Upon  his  brow,  then  looked  the  devil  down 

Within  his  eyes,  till  Lars  was  there  again. 

Erelong  he  trembled,  while,  o'er  all  his  frame 

A  sweat  of  struggle  and  of  agony 

Brake  forth,  and  from  his  throat  a  husky  sob. 

He  tried  to  speak,  but  the  dry  tongue  refused  ; 

He  could  but  groan,  arid  staggered  toward  the  housa, 

As  walks  a  man  who  neither  hears  nor  sees. 

With  bloodless  lips  of  fear  gasped  Abner  Cloud  : 

"A  murderer  !  "  as  Ezra  Mendenhall 
Came,  stunned,  and  with  a  wound  across  his  brow. 

"  Oh,  never  !  "  Ruth  exclaimed ;  but  she  was  pale. 
She  bound  her  father's  head  ;  she  gave  him  drink ; 
She  steadied  him  with  arms  of  gentle  strength, 
Then  spake  to  Abner :  "  Now,  I  pray  thee,  go  ! " 
No  more  :  but  such  was  her  authority 
Of  speech  and  glance,  the  spirit  and  the  power, 
That  he  obeyed,  and  turned,  and  left  the  place. 

Then  Ezra's  strength  came  back  ;  and  "  Ruth,1'  he  said, 
"  I  see  thou  hast  a  purpose  :  let  me  know  !  " 
"I  only  feel,"  she  answered,  "  that  a  soul 
Is  here  in  peril,  but  the  way  to  help 
Ts  not  made  plain  :  the  knowledge  will  be  given." 
"  I  have  no  fear  for  thee,  my  daughter :  do 
What  seemeth  good,  and  strongly  brought  upon 
Thy  mind  by  plain  direction  of  the  Lord  ! 
There  is  a  power  of  evil  in  the  man 
That  might  be  purged,  if  once  he  saw  the  light." 

She  left  him,  seated  in  the  sunny  porch  : 
Within  the  house  and  orchard  all  was  still, 
Nor  found  she  Lars,  at  first.     But  she  was  driven 
By  that  vague  purpose  which  was  void  of  form, 
And  climbed,  at  last,  to  where  his  chamber  lay, 
Beneath  the  rafters.     On  the  topmost  step 
He  sat,  his  forehead  bent  upon  his  knees,, 
A  bundle  at  his  side,  as  when  he  came. 
He  raised  his  head  :  Ruth  saw  his  eyes  were  dull, 
His  features  cold  and  haggard,  and  his  voice, 
When  thus  he  spake  to  her,  was  hoarse  and  strange : 
"  Thou  need'st  not  tell  me  :  I  already  know. 
I  hope  thou  thinkest  it  is  hard  to  me. 
I  am  a  man  of  violence  and  blood, 
Not  meet  for  thy  pure  company ;  and  now 
When  unto  peaceful  ways  my  heart  inclined, 
And  thou  hadst  shown  the  loveliness  of  good, 


LARS.  325 

My  guilt,  not  yet  atoned,  brings  other  guilt 
To  drive  me  forth  :  aiid  this  disgrace  is  worst." 

Ruth  stood  below  him  where  he  sat :  she  laid 

One  hand  upon  the  hand  upon  his  knee, 

And  spake :  "  I  judge  thee  not ;  I  cannot  know 

What  orievous  loss  or  strong  temptation  wrought; 

But  if,  indeed,  to  good  and  peaceful  ways 

Thy  heart  inclines,  canst  thou  not  wrestle  with 

The  Adversary  ?     This  knowledge  of  thy  guilt 

Is  half-repentance  :  whole  would  make  thee  sound." 
"  And  then  —  and  then  "  —  his  natural  voice  returned ; 
"  Then  —  pardon  t "     "  Pardon,  now,  from  me  and  him, 

My  father,  —  for  I  know  his  perfect  heart,  — 

Thou  hast ;  but  couldst  thou  turn  thy  dreadful  strength 

That  so  it  lift,  and  change,  and  chasten  thee  ?  " 
"  If  I  but  could  !  "  —  he  cried,  and  bowed  again 

His  forehead.     "  Wait !  "  she  whispered,  left  him 

And  sought  her  father. 

Now,  when  Ezra  heard 

All  this  repeated,  for  a  space  he  sat 

In  earnest  meditation.     "  Bid  him  come  !  " 

He  said,  at  last,  and  Ruth  brought  Lars  to  him. 

Upon  the  doubting  and  the  suffering  face 

The  old  man  gazed  ;  then  "  Put  thy  bundle  by  !  " 

Came  from  his  lips ;  "  thou  shalt  not  leave,  to-day. 

Thy  hands  have  done  me  hurt ;  if  thou  art  just, 

One  service  do  thyself,  in  following  me. 

Come  with  us  to  the  meeting  :  there  the  Lord 

Down  through  the  silence  of  fraternal  souls 

May  reach  His  hand.     We  cannot  guess  His  ways ; 

Only  so  much  the  inward  Voice  declares." 

But  little  else  was  said  :  upon  them  lay 

The  shadow  of  an  unknown  past,  the  weight 

Of  present  trouble,  the  uncertainty 

Of  what  should  come  ;  yet  o'er  the  soul  of  Ruth 

Hung  something  happier  than  she  dared  to  feel, 

And  Lars,  in  silence,  with  submissive  feet 

Followed,  as  one  who  in  a  land  of  mist 

Feels  one  side  warmer,  where  the  sun  must  be. 

Then,  parted  ere  they  reached  the  separate  doors, 

Lars  went  with  Ezra.    Abner  Cloud,  within,     - 

Beheld  them  enter,  and  he  marvelled  much 

Such  things  could  be.     Straightway  the  highest  seat 

Took  Ezra,  where  the  low  partition-boards 

Sundered  the  men  and  women.     There  alone 

Sat  they  whom  most  the  Spirit  visited, 

And  spake  through  them,  and  gave  authority. 

Then  silence  fell ;  how  long,  Lars  could  not  know, 
Nor  Ruth,  for  each  was  in  a  trance  of  soul, 
Till  Ezra.  rose.     His  words,  at  first,  were  few 
And  broken,  and  they  trembled  on  his  lips ; 
But  soon  the  power  and  full  conviction  came, 
And  then,  as  with  Ezekiel's  trumpet-voice 
He  spake  :  "  Lo  !  many  vessels  hath  the  Lord 
Bet  by  the  fount  of  Evil  in  our  hearts. 


826  LARS. 


Here  envy  and  false-witness  catch  the  green, 

There  pride  the  purple,  lust  the  ruddy  stream : 

But  into  anger  runs  the  natural  blood, 

And  flows  the  faster  as  't  is  tapped  the  more. 

Here  lies  the  source  :  the  conquest  here  begins, 

Then  meekness  comes,  good-will,  and  purity. 

Let  whoso  weigh,  when  his  offence  is  sore, 

The  Lord's  offences,  and  his  patience  mete, 

Though  myriads  less  in  measure,  by  the  Lord's ! 

This  yoke  is  easy,  if  in  love  ye  bear. 

For  none,  the  lowest,  rather  hates  than  loves ; 

But  Love  is  shy,  and  Hate  delights  to  show 

A  brazen  forehead  ;  't  is  the  noblest  sign 

Of  courage,  and  the  rarest,  to  reveal 

The  tender  evidence  of  brotherhood. 

With  one  this  sin  is  born,  with  other,  that ; 

Who  shall  compare  them  1  — either  sin  is  dark, 

But  one  redeeming  Light  is  over  both. 

The  Evil  that  assails  resist  not  ye 

With  equal  evil !  —  else  ye  change  to  man 

The  Lord  within,  whom  ye  should  glorify 

By  words  that  prove  Him,  deeds  that  bless  like  Him  ! 

What  spake  the  patient  and  the  holy  Christ  1 

Unto  thy  brother  first  be  reconciled, 

Then  bring  thy  gift !  and  further  :  Bless  ye  them 

That  curse  you,  and  do  good  to  them  that  hate 

And  persecute,  that  so  the  children  ye  may  be 

Of  Him,  the  Father.     Yea,  His  perfect  love 

Renewed  in  us,  and  of  our  struggles  born, 

Gives,  even  on  earth,  His  pure,  abiding  peace. 

Behold,  these  words  I  speak  are  nothing  new, 

But  they  are  burned  with  fire  upon  my  mind 

To  help  —  the  Lord  permit  that  they  may  save  ! " 

Therewith  he  laid  his  hat  aside,  and  all 

Beheld  the  purple  welt  across  his  brow, 

And  marvelled.     Thus  he  prayed  :  "  Our  God  and  Lord 

And  Father,  unto  whom  our  secret  sins 

Lie  bare  and  scarlet,  turn  aside  from  them 

In  holy  pity,  search  the  tangled  heart 

And  breathe  Thy  life  upon  its  seeds  of  good  ! 

Thou  leavest  no  one  wholly  dark :  Thou  giv'st 

The  hope  and  yearning  where  the  will  is  weak, 

And  unto  all  the  blessed  strength  of  love. 

So  give  to  him,  and  even  withhold  from  me 

Thy  gifts  designed,  that  he  receive  the  more: 

Give  love  that  pardons,  prayer  that  purifies, 

And  saintly  courage  that  can  suffer  wrong, 

For  these  beget  Thy  peace,  and  keep  Thee  near  ! " 

He  ceased  :  all  hearts  were  stirred  ;  and  suddenly 
Amid  the  younger  members  Lars  arose, 
Unconscious  of  the  tears  upon  his  face, 
And  scarcely  audible  :  "  Oh,  brethren  here, 
He  prayed  for  my  sake,  for  my  sake  pray  ye  I 
I'am  a  sinful  man :  I  do  repent. 
I  see  the  truth,  but  in  my  heart  the  lamp 
la  barely  lighted,  any  wind  may  quench. 


LARS.  327 

Bear  with  me  still,  be  helpful,  that  I  live  ! " 
Then  all  not  so  much  wondered  but  they  felt 
The  man's  most  earnest  need  ;  and  many  a  voice 
Responsive  murmured :  "  Yea,  I  will !  "  and  some, 
Whose  brows  were  tombstones  over  passions  slain, 
When  meeting  broke  came  up  and  took  his  hand. 

The  three  walked  home  in  silence,  but  to  Lars 

The  mist  had  lifted,  and  around  him  fell 

A  bath  of  light ;  and  dimly  spread  before 

His  feet  the  sweetness  of  a  purer  world. 

When  Ezra,  that  diviner  virtue  spent 

Which  held  him  up,  grew  faint  upon  the  road, 

The  arm  of  Lars  became  a  strength  to  him  ; 

Yet  all  he  said,  before  the  evening  fell, 

Was  :  "  Gird  thy  loins,  my  friend,  the  way  is  long 

And  wearisome :  haste  not,  but  never  rest ! " 

I  will  not  close  mine  eyes,"  said  Lars  to  Ruth, 

And  laid  aside  the  book,  No  Cross,  No  Crown, 

She  gave  him  as  a  comfort  and  a  help ; 

Till  thou  hast  heard  the  tale  I  have  to  tell. 

Thou  speakest  truth,  the  knowledge  of  my  sin 

Is  half-repentance,  yet  the  knowledge  burns 

Like  fire  in  ashes  till  it  be  confessed. 

Revoke  thy  pardon,  if  it  must  be  so, 

When  all  is  told  :  yea,  speak  to  me  no  more, 

But  I  must  speak  ! "     So  he  began,  and  spared 

No  circumstance  of  love,  and  hate,  and  crime, 

The  songs  and  dances  which  the  Friends  forbid, 

The  bloody  customs  and  the  criee  profane, 

Till  all  lay  bare  and  horrible.     And  Ruth 

Grew  pale  and  flushed  by  turns,  and  often  wept, 

And,  when  he  ceased,  was  silent.     "Now,  farewell  Is1 

He  would  have  said,  when  she  looked  up  and  spake: 

Thy  words  have  shaken  me  :  we  read  such  tales, 

Nor  comprehend,  so  distant  and  obscure  : 

Thou  makest  manifest  the  living  truth. 

Save  thee,  I  never  knew  a  man  of  blood  : 

Thou  shouldst  be  wicked,  and  my  heart  declares 

Thy  gentleness  :  ah,  feeling  all  thy  sin, 

Can  I  condemn  thee,  nor  myself  condemn  ? 

Thy  burden,  thus,  is  laid  upon  me.     Pray 

For  power  and  patience,  pray  for  victory  ! 

Then  falls  the  burden,  and  my  soul  is  glad." 

Lars  saw  what  he  had  done.     His  limbs  unstrung 

Gave  way,  and  softly  on  his  knees  he  sank, 

And  all  the  passion  of  his  nature  bore 

His  yearning  upward,  till  in  faith  it  died. 

He  rose,  at  last ;  his  face  was  calm  and  strong  : 

Ruth  smiled,  and  then  they  parted  for  the  night. 

Yet  Ezra's  words  were  true  :  the  way  was  long 
And  wearisome.     The  better  will  was  there, 
But  not  the  trust  in  self ;  for,  still  beside 
Those  pleasant  regions  opening  on  his  soul, 
Beat  the  unyielding  blood,  as  beats  afar 


828  LARS. 

The  vein  of  lightning  in  a  summer  cloud. 

And,  as  in  each  severe  community 

Of  interests  circumscribed,  where  all  is  known 

And  roughly  handled  till  opinions  join, 

So,  here  were  those  who  kindly  turned  to  Lars, 

And  those  who  doubted,  or  declared  him  false. 

In  this  probation,  Ruth  became  his  stay  : 

She  knew  and  turned  not,  knew  and  yet  believed 

As  did  no  other,  —  hoping  more  than  he. 

Meanwhile  the  summer  and  the  harvest  came. 

One  afternoon,  within  the  orchard,  Ruth 

Gathered  the  first  sweet  apples  of  the  year, 

That  give  such  pleasure  by  their  painted  cheeks 

And  healthy  odor.     Little  breezes  shook 

The  interwoven  flecks  of  sun  and  shade, 

O'er  all  the  tufted  carpet  of  the  grass  ; 

The  birds  sang  near  her,  and  beyond  the  hedge, 

Where  stretched  the  oat-field  broad  along  the  hill, 

Were  harvest  voices,  broken  wafts  of  sound, 

That  brought  no  words.     Then  something  made  her  start; 

She  gazed  and  waited  :  o'er  the  thorny  wall 

Lars  leaped,  or  seemed  to  fly,  and  ran  to  her, 

His  features  troubled  and  his  hands  outstretched. 

*  O  Ruth  ! "  he  cried  ;  "  I  pray  thee,  take  my  hands  ! 
This  power  I  have,  at  last :  I  can  refrain 
Till  help  be  sought,  the  help  that  dwells  in  thee." 
She  took  his  hands,  and  soon,  in  kissing  palms, 
His  violent  pulses  learned  the  beat  of  hers. 
Sweet  warmth  o'erspread  his  frame  ;  he  saw  her  face, 
And  how  the  cheeks  flushed  and  the  eyelids  fell 
Beneath  his  gaze,  and  all  at  once  the  truth 
Beat  fast  and  eager  in  the  palms  of  both. 

"  Take  not  away  ;  "  he  cried  :  "  now,  nevermore, 
Thy  hands  !     O  Ruth,  my  saving  angel,  give 
Thyself  to  me,  and  let  our  lives  be  one  ! 
I  cannot  spare  thee  :  heart  and  soul  alike 
Have  need  of  thee,  and  seem  to  cry  aloud  : 

'  Lo !  faith  and  love  and  holiness  arc  one  ! '  " 
But  who  shall  paint  the  beauty  of  her  oyes 
When  they  unveiled,  and  softly  clung  to  his,     • 
The  while  she  spake  :  "  I  think  I  loved  thee  first 
When  first  I  saw  thee,  and  I  give  my  life, 
In  perfect  trust  and  faith,  to  these  thy  hands." 

"  The  fight  is  fought,"  said  Lars  ;  "  so  blest  by  thee, 
The  strength  of  darkness  and  temptation  dies. 
If  now  the  light  must  reach  me  through  thy  soul, 
It  is  not  clouded  :  clearer  were  too  keen, 
Too  awful  in  its  purity,  for  man." 

So  into  joy  revolved  the  doubtful  year, 
And,  ere  it  closed,  the  gentle  fold  of  Friends 
Sheltered  another  member,  even  Lars. 
The  evidence  of  faith,  in  words  and  ways, 
Could  none  reject,  and  thus  opinions  joined, 
And  that  grew  natural  which  was  marvel  first. 
Then  followed  soon,  since  Ezra  willed  it  so, 
Seeing  that  twofold  duty  guided  Ruth, 
The  second  marvel,  bitterness  to  one 


LARS.  329 

Who  blamed  his  haste,  nor  felt  how  free  is  fa*0, 

Whose  sweeter  name  is  love,  of  will  or  plan. 

And  all  the  country-side  assembled  there, 

One  winter  Sabbath,  when  in  snow  and  sky 

The  colors  of  transfiguration  shone, 

Within  the  meeting-house.     There  Ruth  and  Lara 

Together  sat  upon  the  women's  side, 

And  when  the  peace  was  perfect,  they  arose. 

He  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  spake  these  words, 

As  ordered :  "  In  the  presence  of  the  Lord 

And  this  assembly,  by  the  hand  I  take 

Ruth  Mendenhall,  and  promise  unto  her, 

Divine  assistance  blessing  me,  to  be 

A  loving  and  faithful  husband,  even 

Till  death  shall  separate  us."     Then  spake  Ruth 

The  same  sweet  words  ;  and  so  the  twain  were  one. 


BOOK  III. 

LOVE'S  history,  as  Life's,  is  ended  not 

By  marriage  :  though  the  ignorant  Paradise 

May  then  be  lost,  the  world  of  knowledge  waits, 

With  ample  opportunities,  to  mould 

Young  Eve  and  Adam  into  wife  and  man. 

Some  grace  of  sentiment  expires,  yet  here 

The  nobler  poetry  of  life  begins  : 

The  squire  is  knight,  the  novice  takes  the  vow, 

Old  service  falls,  new  powers  and  duties  join, 

And  that  high  Beauty,  which  is  crown  of  all, 

No  more  a  lightsome  maid,  with  tresses  free 

And  mantle  floating  from  the  bosom  bare, 

Confronts  us  now  like  holy  Barbara, 

As  Palma  drew,  or  she,  Our  Lady,  born 

On  Milos,  type  of  perfect  growth  and  pure. 

So  Lars  and  Ruth  beside  each  other  learned 
what  neither,  left  unwedded,  could  have  won : 
He  how  reliant  and  how  fond  the  heart 
Whose  love  seemed  almost  pitv,  she  how  firm 
And  masterful  the  nature,  which  appealed 
There  for  support  where  hers  had  felt  no  strain ; 
And  both,  how  solemn,  sweet,  and  wonderful 
The  life  of  man.     Their  life,  indeed,  was  still, 
Too  still  for  aught  save  blessing,  for  a  time. 
All  things  were  ordered  :  plenty  in  the  house 
And  fruitfulness  of  field  and  meadow  made 
Light  labor,  and  the  people  came  and  went,    • 
According  to  their  old  and  friendly  ways. 
Within  the  meeting-house  upon  the  hill 
Now  Ezra  oftener  spake,  and  sometimes  Lars, 
Fain  to  obey  the  spirit  which  impelled ; 
And  what  of  customed  phrase  they  missed,  or  tone, 
Unlike  their  measured  chant,  did  he  supply 
With  words  that  bore  a  message  to  the  heart. 

All  this  might  seem  sufficient ;  yet  to  Ruth 
Was  still  unrest,  where,  unto  shallow  ejes 


830  LARS. 

Dwelt  peace;  she  felt  the  uneasy  soul  of  Lars, 

And  waited,  till  his  own  good  time  should  come. 

Yea,  verily,  he  was  happy  :  could  she  doubt 

The  signs  in  him  that  spake  the  same  in  her  1 

Yea,  he  was  happy :  every  day  proclaimed 

The  freshness  of  a  blessing  rebestowed, 

The  conscious  gift,  unworn  by  time  or  use, 

And  this  was  sweet  to  see  ;  yet  he  betrayed 

That  wavering  will,  the  opposite  of  faith, 

Which  comes  of  duty  known  and  not  performed. 

It  seemed  his  lines  of  life  were  cast  in  peace, 

In  green  Hockessin,  where  Lars  Thorstensen, 

A  sound  that  echoed  of  Norwegian  shores, 

Became  Friend  Thurston  :  all  things  there  conspired 

To  blot  the  Past,  but  in  his  soul  it  lived. 

Then,  as  his  thoughts  went  back,  his  tongue  revealed! 

He  spake  of  winding  fiord  and  windy  fell, 

Of  Ulvik's  cottages  and  Craven's  lake, 

And  all  the  moving  features  of  a  life 

So  strange  to  Kuth  ;  till  she  made  bold  to  break, 

Through  playful  chicling,  what  was  grave  surmise  : 

"I  fear  me,  Lars,  that  thou  art  sick  for  home. 
Thy  love  is  with  me  and  thy  memory  far  : 
Thou  scest  with  half  thy  sight ;  and  in  thy  dreams 
I  hear  thee  murmur  in  thine  other  tongue, 

.  So  soft  and  strange,  so  good,  I  cannot  doubt, 
If  I  but  knew  it ;  but  thy  dreams  are  safe." 

"  Nay,  wife,"  he  said  ;  "  misunderstand  them  not  I 
For  dreams  hold  up  before  the  soul,  released 
From  worldly  business,  pictures  of  itself, 
And  in  confused  and  mystic  parables 
Foreshadow  what  it  seeks.     I  do  confess 
I  love  Old  Norway's  bleak,  tremendous  hills, 
Where  winter  sits,  and  sees  the  summer  burn 
In  valleys  deeper  than  yon  cloud  is  high : 
I  love  the  ocean-arms  that  gleam  and  foam 
So  far  within  the  bosom  of  the  land  : 
It  is  not  that.     I  do  confess  to  thee 
I  love  the  frank,  brave  habit  of  the  folk, 
The  hearts  unspoiled,  though  fed  from  ruder  time* 
And  filled  with  angry  blood :  I  love  the  tales 
That  taught,  the  ancient  songs  that  cradled  me, 
The  tongue  my  mother  spake,  unto  the  Lord 
As  sweet  as  thine  upon  the  lips  of  prayer : 
It  is  not  that." 

Then  he  perused  her  face 
Full  earnestly,  and  drew  a  deeper  breath. 

*'  My  wife,  my  Ruth,"  his  words  came,  low  yet  firm  ; 

"  Thou  knowest  of  one  who  brake  a  precious  box 
Of  ointment,  and  refreshed  the'  weary  feet 
Of  Him  who  pardoned  her.     But,  had  He  given 
Not  pardon  only,  had  He  stretched  His  arm 
And  plucked,  as  from  the  vine  of  Paradise, 
All  blessing  and  all  bounty  and  all  good, 
What  then  were  she  that  idly  took  and  used  ?  " 

"I  read  thy  meaning;,"  answered  Ruth ;  "  speak  on  I  * 


LARS.  331 

"  Am  I  net  he  that  idly  uses  ?    Are  there  not 
Here  many  reapers,  there  a  wasting  field  ? 
In  them  the  fierce  inheritance  of  blood 
I  overcame,  is  mighty  still  to  slay ; 
For  ancient  custom  is  a  ring  of  steel 
They  know  not  how  to  snap.     By  day  and  night 
A  powerful  spirit  calls  me  :  '  Go  to  them ! ' 
What  should  mine  answer  to  the  spirit  be  ?  " 

If  there  were  aught  of  struggle  in  her  heart, 
She  hid  the  signs.     A  little  pale  her  cheek, 
But  with  untrembling  eyelids  she  upraised 
Her  face  to  his,  and  took  him  by  the  hands  : 
**  Thy  Lord  is  mine  :  what  should  I  say  to  thee, 
Except  what  she,  whose  name  I  bear,  ere  yet 
She  went  to  glean  in  Bethlehem's  harvest-field, 
Said  to  Naomi :  '  Nay,  entreat  me  not 
To  leave  thee,  or  return  from  following  thee  ? ' 
Should  not  thy  people,  then,  be  mine,  as  mine 
Are  made  thine  own  ?     I  will  not  fail :  He  calls 
On  both  of  us  who  gives  thee  this  command." 

So  Ruth,  erelong,  detached  her  coming  life 
From  all  its  past,  until  each  well-known  thing 
No  more  was  sure  or  needful,  to  her  mind. 
Her  neighbors,  even,  seemed  to  come  and  go 
Like  half-existences  ;  her  days,  as  well, 
Were  clad  with  dream  ;  she  understood  the  words, 
14 1  but  sojourn  among  you  for  a  time," 
And,  from  the  duties  which  were  habits,  turued 
To  brood  o'er  those  unknown,  awaiting  her. 

But  Ezra,  when  he  heard  their  purpose,  spake : 
"  Because  this  thing  is  very  hard  to  me, 
I  dare  not  preach  against  it;  but  I  doubt, 
Being  acquainted  with  the  heart  of  man. 
JT  is  one  thing,  Lars,  to  build  thy  virtue  here, 
Where  others  urge  the  better  will :  but  there, 
Alone,  persuaded,  ridiculed,  assailed, 
Couldst  thou  resist,  yet  love  them  ?     Nay,  I  know 
Thy  power  and  conscience  :  Try  them  not  too  soon  ! 
Is  all  I  ask.     See,  I  am  full  of  years, 
And  thou,  my  daughter,  thou,  indeed  a  son, 
Stay  me  on  either  side  :  wait  but  awhile 
And  ye  are  free,  yea,  seasoned  as  twiu  beams 
Of  soundest  oak,  for  lintels  of  His  door." 

They  patiently  obeyed.     The  years  went  by, 

Until  five  winters  blanched  to  perfect  snow 

The  old  man's  hair.     Then,  when  the  gusts  of  March 

Shook  into  life  the  torpid  souls  of  trees, 

His  body  craved  its  rest.     He  summoned  Lars, 

And  meekly  said  :  "  I  pray  thee,  pardon  me 

That  I  have  lived  so  long  :  I  meant  it  not. 

Now  I  am  certain  that  the  end  is  near ; 

And,  noting  as  I  must,  the  deep  concern 

On  both  your  minds,  I  fain  would  aid  that  work, 

The  which,  I  see,  ye  mean  to  undertake." 


332  LAES. 


Then  counsel  wise  he  gave  :  it  seemed  his  mind, 

Those  five  long  years,  had  pondered  all  things  well, 

Computed  every  chance  and  sought  the  best, 

Foresaw  and  weighed,  foreboded  and  prepared, 

Until  the  call  was  made  his  legacy. 

At  last  he  said  :  "  My  sight  is  verily  clear, 

And  I  behold  your  duty  as  yourselves ;  " 

Then  spake  farewell  with  pleasant  voice,  and  died 

When  summer  came,  upon  an  English  ship 
Sailed  Lars  and  Ruth  between  the  rich  green  shores 
That  widened,  sinking,  till  the  land  was  drowned, 
And  they  were  blown  on  rolling  fields  of  blue. 
Blown  backward  more  than  on  ;  and  evil  eyes 
Of  sailors  on  their  sober  Quaker  garb 
Began  to  turn.     "  Our  Jonah  ! "  was  the  cry, 
When  Lars  was  seen  upon  the  quarter-deck, 
And  one,  a  ruffian  from  the  Dorset  moors, 
Became  so  impudent  and  foul  of  tongue 
That  Ruth  was  frightened,  would  have  fled  below, 
But  Lars  prevented  her.     Three  strides  he  made, 
Then  by  the  waistband  and  the  neck  he  seized 
That  brutish  boor,  and  o'er  the  bulwarks  held, 
Above  the  brine,  like  death  for  very  fear. 

1  Now,  promise  me  to  keep  a  decent  tongue  !  " 
Cried  Lars ;  and  he :  "  I  promise  anything, 
But  let  me  not  be  lost !  "     Thenceforth  respect 
Those  sailors  showed  to  strength,  though  clad  in  peac* 

'  Now  see  I  wherefore  thou  wert  made  so  strong," 
Ruth  said  to  him,  and  inwardly  rejoiced ; 
And  soon  the  mists  and  baffling  breezes  fled 
Before  a  wind  that  down  from  Labrador 
Blew  like  a  will  unwearied,  night  and  day, 
Across  the  desert  of  the  middle  sea. 
Out  of  the  waters  rose  the  Scilly  Isles, 
Afar  and  low,  and  then  the  Cornish  hills, 
And,  floating  up  by  many  a  valley-mouth 
Of  I)evon  streams,  they  came  to  Bristol  town. 

Awhile  among  their  brethren  they  abode, 

For  thus  had  Ezra  ordered.     There  were  some 

Concerned  in  trade,  whose  vessels  to  and  fro 

From  Hull  across  the  German  Ocean  sailed, 

And  touched  Norwegian  ports  ;  and  Lars  in  those, 

The  old  man  said,  must  find  his  nearest  stay. 

But  soon  it  chanced  that  with  a  vessel  came 

A  man  of  Arendal,  in  Norway  land, 

Known  to  the  Friends  as  fair  in  word  and  deed, 

And  well-inclined;  and  Gustaf  Hansen  named. 

Norse  tongue  makes  easy  friendship :  Lars  and  he 

Became  as  brothers  in  a  little  while, 

And,  when  his  worldly  charge  was  ordered,  they 

Together  all  embarked  for  Arendal. 

Calm  autumn  skies  were  o'er  them,  and  the  sea 

Swelled  in  unwriukled  glass  :  they  scarcely  knew 

How  sped  the  voyage,  until  Lindesnaes, 

At  first  a  cloud,  stood  fast,  and  spread  away 

To  flanking  capes,  with  gaps  of  blue  between 


LARS.  333 

Then  rose,  and  showed,  above  the  precipice, 
The  firs  of  Norway  climbing  thick  and  high 
To  wilder  crests  that  made  the  inland  gloom. 
In  front,  the  sprinkled  skerries  pierced  the  wave  » 
Between  them,  slowly  glided  in  and  out 
The  tawny  sails,  while  houses  low  and  red 
Hailed  their  return,  or  sent  them  fearless  forth. 
*  This  is  thy  Norway,  Lars ;  it  looks  like  thee," 
Said  Ruth :  "  it  has  a  forehead  firm  and  bold ; 
It  sets  its  foot  below  the  reach  of  storms, 
Yet  hides,  methinks,  in  each  retiring  vale, 
Delight  in  toil,  contentment,  love,  and  peace,  — 
My  land,  my  husband  !  let  me  love  it,  too  !  " 
So  on  their  softened  hearts  the  sun  went  down 
And  rose  once  more  ;  then  Gustaf  Hansen  came 
Beside  them,  pilot  of  familiar  shores, 
And  said  :  "  To  starboard,  yonder,  lies  the  isle 
As.I  described  it;  here,  upon  our  lee 
Is  mainland  all,  and  there  the  Nid  comes  down, 
The  timber-shouldering  Nid,  from  endless  woods 
And  wilder  valleys  where  scant  grain  is  grown. 
Now  bend  your  glances  as  my  finger  points,  — 
Lo !  there  it  is,  the  spire  of  Areudal ! 
Our  little  town,  as  homely,  kind,  and  dear, 
As  some  old  dame,  round  whom  her  children's  babes 
Cling  to  be  petted,  comforted,  and  spoiled. 
And  here,  my  friends,  shall  ye  with  me  abide 
And  with  my  Thora,  till  the  winter  melts, 
Which  there,  beyond  yon  wall  of  slaty  cloud, 
Possesses  fell  and  upland  even  now. 
Too  strange  is  Ruth  to  dare  those  snowy  wastes, 
Nor  is  there  need  :  good  Thora's  heart  will  turn 
To  her,  I  know,  as  mine  hath  turned  to  Lars ; 
And  Arendal  is  warmly-harbored,  snug, 
And  not  unfriendly  in  the  time  of  storms." 

They  could  not  say  him  nay.     The  anchor  dropped 
Before  the  town,  and  Thora,  from  the  land, 
Tall,  broad  of  breast,  with  ever-rosy  cheeks 
O'er  which  the  breezes  tossed  her  locks  of  gray, 
Stretched  arms  of  welcome ;  and  the  ancient  house, 
With  massive  beams  and  ample  chimney-place, 
As  in  Hockessin,  made  immediate  home. 
To  Ruth,  how  sweetly  the  geraniums  peeped 
With  scarlet  eyes  across  the  window-sill ! 
How  orderly  the  snowy  curtains  shone ! 
Familiar,  too,  the  plainness  and  the  use 
In  all  things  ;  presses  of  the  dnsky  oak, 
Fair  linen,  store  of  healing  herbs  that  smelled 
Of  charity,  and  signs  of  forethought  wise 
That  justified  the  plenty  of  the  house. 
It  was  as  Gustaf  said  :  good  Thora  loved 
The  foreign  woman,  taught  and  counselled  her, 
Taking  to  heart  their  purpose,  so  that  she 
Unconsciously  received  the  truth  of  Friends. 
And  Gustaf  also,  through  the  soul  of  Lars, 
To  him  laid  bare,  and  all  that  blessing  clear 
Obedience  brings  when  speaks  the  inward  voice, 


334  LARS. 


Believed  erelong  ;  then  others  came  to  hear, 
Till  there,  in  Arendal,  a  brotherhood 
Of  earnest  seekers  for  the  light  grew  up, 
Before  the  hasty  spring  of  northern  lands 
Sowed  buttercups  along  the  banks  of  Nid. 

But  when  they  burst,  those  precious  common  flowem 
That  not  a  meadow  of  the  world  can  spare, 
Said  Lars,  one  Sabbath,  to  the  little  flock : 
'  Here  we  have  tarried  long,  and  it  is  well ; 
But  now  we  go,  and  it  is  also  well. 
This  much  is  blessing  added  unto  those 
That  went  before ;  hence  louder  rings  the  call 
Which  brought  me  hither,  and  I  must  obey. 
My  path  is  clear,  my  duty  strange  and  stern, 
The  end  thereof  uncertain  ;  it  may  be, 
My  brethren,  I  shall  never  see  ye  more. 
Your  love  upholds  me,  and  your  faith  confirms 
My  purpose :  bless  me  now,  and  bid  farewell !  " 
Then  Gustaf  wept,  and  said  :  "  Our  brother,  go ! 
Yet  thou  art  with  us,  and  we  walk  with  thee 
In  this  or  yonder  world,  as  bids  the  Lord." 

Their  needful  preparations  soon  were  made  : 

Two  strong  dun  horses  of  the  mountain  breed, 

With  hoofs  like  claws,  that  clung  where'er  they  touched, 

Unholstered  saddles,  leathern  wallets  rilled 

With  scrip  for  houseless  ways,  close-woven  cloaks 

To  comfort  them  upon  the  cloudy  fells, 

And  precious  books,  by  Penn  and  Barclay  writ 

And  Woolman,  —  these  made  up  their  little  store. 

The  few  and  faithful  went  with  them  a  space 

Along  the  banks  of  Kid ;  there  first  besought 

All  power  and  light,  and  furtherance  for  the  task 

Awaiting  Lars  :  they  knew  not  what  it  was, 

But  what  it  was,  they  knew,  was  good:  then  all 

Gave  hands  and  said  farewell,  and  Lars  and  lluth 

Rode  boldly  onward,  facing  the  dark  land. 

Across  the  lonely  hills  of  Tellemark, 

That  smiled  in  sunshine,  went  their  earnest  way, 

And  by  the  sparkling  waters  of  the  Tind ; 

Then,  leaving  on  the  left  that  chasm  of  dread 

Where,  under  Gousta's  base,  the  Kiukan  falls 

In  winnowing  blossoms,  tendrilled  vines  of  foam, 

And  bursting  rockets  of  the  starry  spray, 

They  rode  through  forests  into  Hemsedal. 

The  people  marvelled  at  their  strange  attire, 

But  all  were  kind  ;  and  Ruth,  to  whom  their  speech 

Was  now  familiar,  found  such  ordered  toil, 

Such  easy  gladness,  temperate  desire, 

That  many  doubts  were  laid  :  the  spirit  slept, 

She  thought,  and  waited  but  a  heartsome  call. 

Then  ever  higher  stood  the  stormy  fells 

Against  uncertain  skies,  as  they  advanced ; 

And  ever  grander  plunged  the  roaring  snow 

Of  mighty  waterfalls  from  cliff  to  vale  : 

The  firs  were  mantled  in  a  blacker  shade, 


LARS.  336 

The  rocks  were  rusted  as  with  ancient  blood, 

And  winds  that  shouted  or  in  wailing  died 

Harried  the  upper  fields,  in  endless  wrath 

At  finding  there  no  man. 

The  soul  of  Lars 

Expanded  with  a  solemn  joy ;  but  Ruth, 

Awed  by  the  gloom  and  wildness  of  the  land, 

Rode  close  and  often  touched  her  husband's  arm ; 

And  when  within  its  hollow  dell  they  saw 

The  church  of  Borgund  like  a  dragon  sit, 

Its  roof  all  horns,  its  pitchy  shingles  laid 

Like  serpent  scales,  its  door  a  dusky  throat, 

She  whispered  :  "  This  the  ancients  must  have  left 

From  their  abolished  worship :  is  it  so  ? 

This  is  no  temple  of  the  living  Lord, 

That  makes  me  fear  it  like  an  evil  thing ! " 
"  Consider  not  its  outward  form,"  said  Lars, 
"  Or  mine  may  vex  thee,  for  my  sin  outgrown. 

I  would  the  dragon  in  the  people's  blood 

As  harmless  were  '. "     So  downward,  side  by  side, 

From  ridges  of  the  windy  Fille  Fell 

Unto  the  borders  of  the  tamer  brine, 

The  sea-arm  bathing  Frithiof's  home,  they  rode; 

Then  two  days  floated  past  those  granite  walls 

That  mock  the  boatman  with  a  softer  song, 

And  took  the  land  again,  where  shadow  broods, 

And  frequent  thunder  of  the  tumbling  rocks 

Is  heard  the  summer  through,  in  Naerodal. 

To  Ruth  the  gorge  seemed  awful,  and  the  path 

That  from  its  bowels  toiled  to  meet  the  sun, 

Was  hard  as  any  made  for  Christian's  feet, 

In  Bunyan's  dream ;  but  Lars  with  lighter  step 

The  giddy  zigzag  scaled,  for  now,  beyond, 

Not  distant,  lay  the  Vossevangen  vale, 

And  all  the  cheerful  neighborhood  of  home. 

At  last,  one  quiet  afternoon,  they  crossed 

The  fell  from  Graven,  and  below  them  saw 

The  roofs  of  Ulvik  and  the  orchard-trees 

Shining  in  richer  colors,  and  the  fiord, 

A  dim  blue  gloom  between  Hardanger  heights,-— 

The  strife  and  peace,  the  plenty  and  the  need ; 

And  both  were  silent  for  a  little  space. 

Then  Ruth  :  "  I  had  not  thought  thy  home  so  fair, 

Nor  yet  so  stern  and  overhung  with  dread, 

It  seems  to  draw  me  as  a  danger  draws, 

Yet  gives  me  courage  .  is  it  well  with  thee  ?  " 
"  That  which  I  would,  I  know,"  responded  Lara, 
"Not  that  which  may  be  :  ask  no  more,  I  pray  ! " 

Then  downward,  weary,  strangely  moved,  yet  glad, 

They  went,  a  wonder  to  the  Ulvik  folk, 

Till  some  detected,  'neath  his  shadowy  brim, 

The  eyes  of  Lars  ;  and  he  was  scarcely  housed 

With  his  astonished  kindred,  ere  the  news 

Spread  from  the  fountain,  ran  along  the  shore. 

For  all  believed  him  dead  :  in  truth,  the  dead 

Could  not  have  risen  in  stranger  guise  than  he, 

Who  spake  as  one  they  knew  and  did  not  know, 


836  LARS. 

Who  seemed  another,  yet  must  he  the  same. 

His  folk  were  kind :  they  owned  the  right  of  hlood, 

Nor  would  disgrace  it,  though  a  half-disgrace 

Lars  seemed  to  bring  ;  but  in  her  strange,  sweet  self 

Ruth  brought  a  pleasure  which  erelong  was  love. 

Her  gentle  voice,  her  .patient,  winning  ways, 

Pure  thought  and  ignorance  of  evil  things 

That  on  her  wedlock  left  a  virgin  bloom, 

Set  her  above  them,  yet  her  nature  dwelt 

In  lowliness  :  sister  and  saint  she  seemed. 

Soon  Thorsten,  brother  of  the  slaughtered  Per, 
Alike  a  stalwart  fisher  of  the  fiord, 
Heard  who  had  come,  and  published  unto  all 
The  debt  of  blood  he  meant  to  claim  of  Lara. 

"  The  coward,  only,  comes  as  man  of  peace, 
To  shirk  such  payment !  "  were  his  bitter  words. 
And  they  were  carried  unto  Lars  :  but  he 
Spake  firmly :  "  Well  I  knew  what  he  would  claim : 
The  coward,  knowing,  comes  not."     Nothing  more; 
Nor  could  thoy  guess  the  purpose  of  his  mind. 
In  little  Ulvik  all  the  people  learned 
What  words  had  passed,  and  there  were  friends  of  both; 
But  Lars  kept  silent,  walked  the  ways  unarmed, 
And  preached  the  pardon  of  an  utmost  wrong. 
Now  Thorsten  saw  in  this  but  some  device 
To  try  his  own  forbearance  :  his  revenge 
Grew  hungry  for  an  answering  enmity, 
And  weary  of  its  shame ;  and  so,  at  last, 
He  sent  this  message  :  "  If  Lars  Thorstensen 
Deny  not  blood  he  spilled,  and  guilt  thereof, 
Then  let  him  meet  me  by  the  Graven  lake,"  — 
On  such  a  day. 

When  came  the  message,  Lars 
Spake  thus  to  all  his  kindred :  "  I  will  go  : 
I  do  deny  not  my  blood-guiltiness. 
This  thing  hath  rested  on  my  soul  for  years, 
And  must  be  met."     Then  unto  Ruth  he  turned : 

44 1  go  alone  :  abide  thou  with  our  kin." 
But  she  arose  and  answered  :  "  Nay,  I  go ! 
Forbid  me  not,  or  I  must  disobey, 
Which  were  a  cross.     I  give  thee  to  the  Lord, 
His  helpless  instrument,  to  break  or  save  ; 
Think  not  my  weakness  shall  confuse  thy  will !  " 
Lars  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head,  and  all 
Were  strangely  melted,  though  he  spake  no  more, 
Nor  then,  nor  on  the  way  to  Graven  lake. 

Lo !  there  were  many  gathered,  kin  of  both, 
Or  friends,  or  folk  acquainted  with  the  tale, 
And  curious  for  its  end.     The  summer  sky 
Was  beautiful  above  them,  and  the  trees 
Stood  happy,  stretching  forth  forgiving  arma ; 
Yet  sultry  thunder  in  the  hearts  of  men 
Brooded,  the  menace  of  a  rain  of  blood. 
Lars  paused  not  when  he  came.     He  saw  the  face 
Of  Thorsten,  ruddy,  golden-haired  like  Per's, 
Amid  the  throng,  and  straightway  went  to  him 


LARS.  337 

And  spake  :  "  I  come,  as  them  invitest  me. 
My  brother,  I  have  shed  thy  brother's  blood ; 
What  wouldst  thou  I  should  do  thee,  to  atone  ?  " 

"  Give  yonrs  !  "  cried  Thorsten,  stepping  back  a  pace. 

"  That  murderous  law  we  took  from  heathen  sires," 
Said  Lars,  "  is  guilt  upon  a  Christian  land, 
I  do  abjure  it.     Wilt  thou  have  my  blood, 
Nor  less,  I  dare  not  lift  a  hand  for  thine." 

"  You  came  not,  then,  to  fight,  though  branded  here 

A  coward  1 " 

"  Nay,  nor  ever,"  answered  Lars ; 
"  But,  were  I  coward,  could  I  calmly  bear 

Thy  words  ?  "     Then  Thorkil,  friend  of  Thorsten,  cried 
"  These  people,  in  their  garments,  I  have  heard, 

Put  on  their  peace  ;  or  else  some  magic  dwells 

In  shape  of  hat  or  color  of  the  coat, 

To  make  them  harmless  as  a  browsing  hare. 

That  Lars  we  knew  had  danger  in  his  eyes ; 

But  this  one,  —  why,  uncover,  let  us  see !  " 

Therewith  struck  off  the  hat.     And  others  there 

Fell  upon  Lars,  and  tore  away  his  coat, 

Nor  ceased  the  outrage  until  they  had  made 

His  body  bare  to  where  the  leathern  belt 

Is  clasped  between  the  breast-bone  and  the  hip. 

Around  his  waist  they  buckled  then  a  belt, 

And  brought  a  knife,  and  thrust  it  in  his  hand. 

The  open  fingers  would  not  hold :  the  knife 

Fell  from  them,  struck,  and  quivered  in  the  sod. 

Thorsten,  apart,  had  also  bared  his  breast, 

And  waited,  beautiful  in  rosy  life. 

Then  Thorkil  and  another  drew  the  twain 

Together,  hooked  the  belts  of  each,  and  strove 

Once  more  to  arm  the  passive  hand  of  Lars : 

In  vain  :  his  open  fingers  would  not  hold 

The  knife,  which  fell  and  quivered  in  the  sod. 

He  looked  in  Thorsten's  eyes  ;  great  sorrow  fell 

Upon  him,  and  a  tender  human  love. 
"  I  did  not  this,"  he  said ;  "  nor  will  resist. 

If  thou  art  minded  so,  then  strike  me  dead : 

But  thou  art  sacred,  for  the  blood  1  spilled 

Is  in  thy  veins,  my  brother  :  yea,  all  blood 

Of  all  men  sacred  is  in  thee."     His  arms 

Hung  at  his  side  :  he  did  not  shrink  or  sway : 

His  flesh  touched  Thorsten's  where  the  belts  were  joined, 

And  felt  its  warmth.     Then  twice  did  Thorsten  lift 

His  armed  hand,  and  twice  he  let  it  sink : 

An  anguish  came  upon  his  face :  he  groaned, 

And  all  that  heard  him  marvelled  at  the  words ; 
"  Have  pity  on  me ;  turn  away  thine  eyes : 

I  cannot  slay  thee  while  they  look  on  me  1 " 
"  If  I  could  end  this  bloody  custon  so, 

In  all  the  land,  nor  plant  a  late  remorse 

For  what  is  here  thy  justice,/  answered  Lars, 
"  I  could  not  say  thee  nay     Yet,  if  the  deed 
22 


338  LARS. 

Be  good,  thou  shouldst  have  courage  for  the  deed ! " 
Once  more  looked  Thorsten  in  those  loving  eyes, 
And  shrank,  and  shuddered,  and  grew  deadly  pale, 
Till,  with  a  gasp  for  breath,  as  one  who  drowns 
Draws,  when  he  dips  again  above  the  wave, 
He  loosed  the  clutching  belts,  and  sat  him  down 
And  hid  his  face  :  they  heard  him  only  say  : 
"  'T  were  well  that  I  should  die,  for  very  shame  ! " 
Lars  heard,  and  spake  to  all :  "  The  shame  is  mine, 
Whose  coward  heart  betrayed  me  unto  guilt. 
I  slew  my  brother  Per,  nor  sought  his  blood  : 
Thou,  Thorsten,  wilt  not  mine ;  I  read  thy  heart. 
But  ye,  who  trample  on  the  soul  of  man 
In  still  demanding  he  shall  ne'er  outgrow 
The  savage  in  his  veins,  through  faith  in  Good, 
Who  Thorsten  rule,  even  as  ye  ruled  myself,  — 
I  call  ye  to  repent !     That  God  we  left, 
White  Balder,  were  more  merciful  than  this  : 
If  one,  henceforward,  cast  on  Thorsten  shame, 
The  Lord  shall  smite  him  when  the  judgment  comes ! " 

Never  before,  such  words  in  such  a  place 

Were  preached  by  such  apostle.     Bared,  as  though 

For  runes  of  death,  while  red  Berserker  rage 

Kindled  in  some,  in  others  smouldered  out, 

He  raised  his  hand  and  pointed  to  the  sky  : 

Far  off,  behind  the  silent  fells,  there  rolled 

A  sudden  thunder.     Ruth,  who  all  the  while 

Moved  not  nor  spake,  stood  forth,  and  o'er  her  face 

There  came  the  glory  of  an  opening  heaven. 

Now  that  she  knew  the  habit  of  the  folk, 

She  spake  not ;  but  she  clothed  the  form  of  Lars 

In  silence,  and  the  women,  weeping,  helped. 

Then  Thorsten  rose,  and  seeing  her,  he  said  : 

"  Thou  art  his  wife  ;  they  tell  me  thou  art  good. 
I  am  no  bloodier  than  thy  husband  was 
Before  he  knew  thee  :  hast  thou  aught  to  say  ?  " 
She  took  his  hand  and  spake,  as  one  inspired : 

"  Thou  couldst  not  make  thyself  a  man  of  blood  I 
This  is  thy  seed  of  blessing  :  let  it  grow ! 
Gladness  of  heart,  and  peace,  and  honored  name 
Shall  come  to  thee  :  the  unrighteous,  cruel  law 
Is  broken  by  thy  hands,  no  less  than  his 
Who  loves  thee,  and  would  sooner  die  than  harm !  " 

"  They  speak  the  truth,"  said  Thorsten;  "thou  art  good, 
And  it  were  surely  bitter  grief  to  thee 
If  I  had  slain  him.     Go !  his  blood  is  safe 
From  hands  of  mine." 

His  words  the  most  approved ; 
The  rest,  bewildered,  knew  not  what  to  say. 
In  these  the  stubborn  mind  and  plastic  heart 
Agreed  not  quickly,  for  the  thing  was  strange, 
An  olden  tale  with  unforeboded  end  : 
They  must  have  time.    The  crowd  soon  fell  apart, 
Some  faces  glad,  all  solemn,  and  dispersed ; 
Except  one  woman,  who,  from  time  to  time, 
Pressed  forward,  then,  as  with  uncertain  will, 
Turned  back  as  often.    Troubled  was  her  fac* 


LARS.  339 

And  worn :  within  the  hollows  of  her  eyes 
Dwelt  an  impatient  sorrow,  and  her  lips 
Had  from  themselves  the  girlish  fulness  pressed. 
Her  hair  hung  negligent,  though  plenteous  still ; 
And  beauty  that  no  longer  guards  itself, 
But  listlessly  beholds  its  ruin  come, 
Made  her  an  apparition  wild  and  sad, 
A  cloud  on  others'  joy. 

Lars,  as  he  left 

That  field  unsullied,  saw  the  woman  stand. 
Brita  ! "  he  cried ;  and  all  the  past  returned 
And  all  the  present  mixed  with  it,  and  made 
His  mouth  to  quiver  and  his  eyes  to  fill : 
Unhappy  Brita,  and  I  made  thee  so ! 
Is  there  forgiveness  yet  for  too  much  love 
And  foolish  faith,  that  brought  us  double  woe  ? 
I  dare  not  ask  it ;  couldst  thou  give  unasked  1 " 
Her  face  grew  hard  to  keep  the  something  back 
Which  softened  her :  "  Make  Per  alive,"  she  said, 
One  moment  only,  that  he  pardon  me, 
And  thou  art  pardoned  !  else,  I  think,  canst  thou 
Bear  silence,  as  I  bear  it  from  the  dead. 
Oh,  thou  hast  done  me  harm  ! "    But  Ruth  addressed 
These  words  to  her :  "  I  never  did  thee  harm, 
Yet  on  my  soul  my  husband's  guilt  to  thee 
Is  made  a  shadow :  let  me  be  thy  friend ! 
Only  a  woman  knows  a  woman's  need." 

Lars  understood  the  gesture  and  the  glance 

Which  Ruth  then  gave,  and  hastened  on  the  path 

To  join  his  kindred,  leaving  them  alone. 

So  Ruth  by  Brita  walked,  and  spake  to  her 

In  worlds  whose  very  sound  a  comfort  gave, 

Like  some  soft  wind  that  o'er  an  arid  land, 

Unfelt  at  first,  fans  on  with  cooling  wings 

Till  all  the  herbage  freshens,  and  the  soil 

Is  moist  with  dew  ;  and  Brita's  arid  heart 

Thus  opened :  "  Yea,  all  this  is  very  well. 

So  much  thou  knowest,  being  woman,  —  love 

Of  man,  and  man's  of  thee,  and  both  declared : 

But  say,  how  canst  thou  measure  misery 

Of  love  that  lost  its  chances,  made  the  Past 

One  dumbness,  and  forever  reckons  o'er 

The  words  unspoken,  which  to  both  were  sweet, 

The  touch  of  hands  that  never  binding  met, 

The  kisses,  never  given  and  never  took, 

The  hopes  and  raptures  that  were  never  shared,  — 

Nay,  worse  than  this,  for  she  withheld,  who  knew 

They  might  have  been,  from  him  who  never  knew ! " 

Therewith  her  passion  loosed  itself  in  sobs, 

And  on  the  pitying  breast  of  Ruth  she  wept 

Her  heart  to  calmness ;  then,  with  less  of  pain, 

She  told  the  simple  storv  of  her  life  : 

How,  scarce  two  years  oefore,  her  grandam  died, 

Who  would  have  seen  her  wedded,  and  was  wroth, 

At  times,  in  childish  petulance  of  age, 

But  kinder  —  't  was  a  blessing !  —  ere  she  died, 


840  LARS. 

Leaving  the  cottage  highest  on  the  slope, 
Naught  else,  to  Brita ;  but  her  wants  were  few. 
The  garden  helped  her,  and  the  spotted  cow, 
Now  old,  indeed :  she  span  the  winter  through, 
And  there  was  meal  enough,  and  Thorsten  gave 
Sometimes  a  fish,  because  she  grieved  for  Per ; 
And,  now  the  need  of  finery  was  gone,  — 
For  men  came  not  a-wooing  where  consent 
Abode  not,  —  she  had  made  the  least  suffice. 
Yes,  she  was  lonely :  it  was  better  so, 
For  she  must  learn  to  live  in  loneliness. 
As  much  as  unto  Ruth  she  had  not  said 
To  any  woman,  trusting  her,  it  seemed, 
Without  a  knowledge,  more  than  them  she  knew. 
"  Yea,  trust  me,  Sister  Brita  !  "  Ruth  replied, 
"  And  try  to  love  :  my  heart  is  drawn  to  thee." 
Thereafter,  many  a  day,  went  Ruth  alone 
To  Brita's  cottage,  vexing  not  with  words 
That  woke  her  grief,  and  silent  as  to  Lars, 
Till  Brita  learned  to  smile  when  she  appeared, 
And  missed  her  when  she  came  not.     Now,  meanwhile, 
The  news  of  Lars,  and  Thorsten 's  foiled  revenge 
Beside  the  lake  of  Graven,  travelled  far 
Past  Vik  and  Vossevangen,  o'er  the  fells, 
To  all  the  homesteads  of  the  Bergenstift; 
And  every  gentle  heart  leaped  up  in  joy, 
While  those  of  restless  old  Berserker  blood 
Beat  hot  with  wrath.     Who  oversets  old  laws, 
They  said,  is  dangerous  ;  and  who  is  he 
That  dares  to  preach,  and  hath  not  been  ordained  f 
This  thing  concerns  the  ministers,  they  whom 
The  State  sets  over  us,  with  twofold  power, 
Divine  and  secular,  to  teach  and  rule. 
Then  he,  the  shepherd  of  the  Ulvik  flock, 
Not  now  that  good  old  man,  but  one  whose  youth 
More  hateful  showed  his  Christless  bigotry, 
Made  Sabbaths  hot  with  his  anathemas 
Of  Lars,  and  stirred  a  tumult  in  the  land. 
Some  turned  away,  and  all  grew  faint  of  heart, 
Seeing  the  foothold  yield,  and  slip ;  till  Lars, 
Now  shunned  at  home,  and  drawn  by  messages 
From  Gustaf  Hansen  and  the  faithful  souls 
In  Arendal,  said :  "  It  is  time  to  go." 

"  Nay,  tarry  but  a  little  while,"  spake  Ruth. 
"  I  have  my  purpose  here,  as  thou  hadst  thine : 

Grant  me  but  freedom,  for  the  end,  I  think, 

Is  justified." 

Lars  answered  :  "  Have  thy  will ! " 

She  summoned  Brita,  and  the  twain  went  down 
To  pace  the  scanty  strand  beside  the  wave, 
Which,  after  storm,  was  quiet,  though  the  gloom 
Of  high,  opposing  mountains  filled  the  fiord. 
Ruth  spake  of  parting ;  Brita  answered  not, 
But  up  and  down  in  silence  walked  the  strand, 
Then  suddenly :  "  No  message  sendeth  Lars  ? 
My  pardon  he  implored ;  and  that,  to  thee, 


LARS.  841 

I  know,  were  welcome.    Hadst  thou  asked,  perchance, 

Perverse  in  sorrow,  I  should  still  withhold ; 

But  thou  departest,  who  hast  been  so  kind, 

And  I  —  ah,  God !  what  else  have  I  to  give  ?  " 
'  The  Lord  requite  theo,  Brita !  "  Ruth  exclaimed  ; 
'  The  gift  that  blesses  must  be  given  unasked : 

What  now  remains  is  easy.     Come  with  us, 

With  Lars  and  me,  and  be  our  home  thy  home, 

All  peace  we  win,  all  comfort,  thine  as  ours ! " 

Once  more  walked  Brita  up  and  down  the  strand, 

Bowing  her  face  upon  her  shielding  hands, 

As  if  to  muse,  unwatched  ;  then  stood,  and  seemed 

About  to  speak,  when,  with  a  shrilling  cry 

She  sprang,  and  fell,  and  grovelled  on  her  knees, 

And  thrust  her  fingers  in  the  wet  sea-sand. 

Ruth,  all  in  terror,  ran  to  her,  and  saw 

How,  fron?  the  bones  of  some  long-wasted  fish 

An  osprey  uropped,  or  tempest  beat  to  death, 

Caught  in  the  breakers,  and  the  drifted  shells, 

And  tangles  of  the  rotting  kelp,  she  plucked 

Something  that  sparkled,  pressed  it  to  her  lips, 

And  cried  :  "  A  sign  !  a  sign !  't  is  grandam  speaks !  ** 

Then  trembling  rose,  and  flung  herself  on  Ruth, 

And  kissed  her,  saying  :  "  I  will  follow  thee. 

My  heart  assented,  yet  I  had  denied, 

But,  ere  I  spake,  the  miracle  was  done  ! 

Thy  words  give  back  the  jewel  lost  with  Per  : 

Tell  Lars  I  do  forgive  him,  and  will  serve 

Thee,  Ruth,  a  willing  handmaid,  in  thy  home  I" 

So  Brita  went  with  them  to  Arendal. 

There  milder  habits,  easier  government 

Of  bench  and  pulpit  for  a  while  left  all 

In  peace :  and  not  alone  within  the  fold 

Of  Friends  came  Brita,  but  the  Lord  inspired. 

She  spake  with  power,  as  one  by  suffering  taught 

A  chastened  spirit,  and  she  wrought  good  works. 

She  was  a  happy  matron  ere  she  died, 

And  blessing  came  on  all ;  for,  from  that  day 

Of  doubt  and  anguish  by  the  Graven  lake, 

The  Lord  fulfilled  in  Ruth  one  secret  prayer, 

And  gave  her  children ;  and  the  witness  borne 

By  Lars,  the  voice  of  his  unsprinkled  blood, 

Became  a  warning  on  Norwegian  hills. 

Here,  now,  they  fade.     The  purpose  of  their  lives 

Was  lifted  up,  by  something  over  life, 

To  power  and  service.     Though  the  name  of  Lars 

Be  never  heard,  the  healing  of  the  world 

Is  in  its  nameless  saints.     Each  separate  star 

Seems  nothing,  but  a  myriad  scattered  stars 

Break  up  the  Night,  and  make  it  beautiful. 


